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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Anne   Revere 


STEWART  &.  KIDD  DRAMATIC  SERIES 


The  Portmanteau  Plays 

By  Smart  Walker 

Edited  and  with  an  Introduction  by 
Edward  Hale  Bierstadt 

VOL.  1— Portmanteau  Plays 

Introduction 

The  Trimplet 

Nevertheless 

Six  Who  Pass  While  the  Lentils 

Boil 
Medicine  Show 

VOL.  2— -More  Portmanteau  Plays 

Introduction 

The  Lady  of  the  Weeping  Wil 
low  Tree 

The  Very  Naked  Boy 
Jonathan  Makes  a  Wish 

VOL.  3— Portmanteau  Adapta 
tions 

Introduction 

Gammer  Gurton's  Needle 

The  Birthday  of  the  Infanta 

"Seventeen" 

Each  of  the  above  three  volumes  handsomely 
bound  and  illustrated.     Per  volume  net  $2.00 


STEWART  &  KIDD  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 


SHORT  PLAYS 


BY 

MARYjMAcMILLAN 

Author  of 
MORE  SHORT  PLAYS 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  &L  KIDD  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
STEWART  &  K1DD  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 
COPYRIGHT  IN  ENGLAND 


For  permission  to  present  any  of 
these  plays  apply  to  the  author 
who  retains  all  dramatic  rights. 

First  impression  November,  1913 
Second  impression  November,  1914 
Third  impression  January,  1917 
Fourth  impression  April,  1920 


^ 


P  c 

r  s 


TO 
M.  L. 


634111 


Some  are  born  dramatists  —  like  Shakespeare, 
some  achieve  dramatic  construction  —  like  Ibsen, 
some  have  drama  thrust  upon  them — like  me.  I 
did  not  lisp  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came, 
but  rather  I  was  locked  up  alone  in  a  room 
with  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  tincup  of  water 
and  commanded  to  write  a  drama  that  could 
be  produced  by  five  or  six  women  in  forty-five 
minutes  without  scenery  on  a  stage  as  big  as  a 
good-sized  book.  The  process  was  repeated  at 
intervals  throughout  the  last  few  years  and  this 
little  collection  of  plays  is  the  result.  With  the 
exception  of  "  The  Gate  of  Wishes  "  they  have 
all  been  presented  by  the  Cincinnati  College  Club 
or  the  Cincinnati  Woman's  Club  and  otherwise 
and  elsewhere.  "  The  Gate  of  Wishes "  was 
first  published  in  Poet  Lore,  "  A  Fan  and  a  Pair 
of  Candlesticks  "  came  out  in  the  College  Club 
edition  of  the  Club  Woman's  Magazine,  and 
4  The  Shadowed  Star  "  was  published  separately 
by  the  Consumers'  League.  The  songs  in  "  The 
Rose  "  and  "  Entr'  Acte  "  were  set  to  music  by 
Mr.  Sidney  C.  Durst  and  may  be  obtained  from 
me  at  any  time.  For  the  dance  in  "  Entr'  Acte  " 
the  music  we  used  was  "  Espanita."  The  de 
scriptions,  stage-settings,  directions,  and  so  on 
throughout  the  plays  are  as  I  have  seen  them  in 
my  imagination,  but  may  be  changed  according  to 
the  exigencies  of  any  private  performance.  No 
one  knows  these  exigencies  better  than  I.  And 


if  any  one  wishes  to  have  Ralph's  eyes  green  in 
stead  of  brown,  or  Peter  Dodsley's  cloak  sky- 
blue,  or  the  scene  of  "  A  Woman's  a  Woman  "  out 
on  the  lawn,  or  to  alter  an  unprepossessing  speech 
—  why,  he  has  the  whole  universe  to  choose  from, 
and  my  blessing. 

MARY  MAC  MILLAN. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SHADOWED  STAR i 

THE  RING 21 

THE  ROSE 51 

LUCK? 67 

ENTR'  ACTE 123 

A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN  FOR  A'  THAT    .     .      .      .145 

A  FAN  AND  Two  CANDLESTICKS 173 

A  MODERN  MASQUE 187 

THE  FUTURISTS 207 

THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 233 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR. 

CAST. 

A  WOMAN,  the  mother. 

AN  OLD  WOMAN,  the  grandmother. 

Two  GIRLS,  the  daughters. 

A  MESSENGER  BOY. 

A  NEIGHBOR. 

ANOTHER  NEIGHBOR. 

[A  very  bare  room  in  a  tenement  house,  un- 
carpeted,  the  boards  being  much  worn,  and 
from  the  walls  the  bluish  whitewash  has  scaled 
away;  in  the  front  on  one  side  is  a  cooking- 
stove,  and  farther  back  on  the  same  side  a  win 
dow;  on  the  opposite  side  is  a  door  opening 
into  a  hallway;  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  is  a  round,  worn  dining-room  table,  on 
which  stands  a  stunted,  scraggly  bit  of  an 
evergreen-tree;  at  the  back  of  the  room,  near 
the  window,  stands  an  old-fashioned  safe  with 
perforated  tin  front;  next  it  a  door  opening 
into  an  inner  room,  and  next  it  in  the  corner 
a  bed,  on  which  lies  a  pallid  woman;  another 
woman,  very  old,  sits  in  a  rocking-chair  in 
front  of  the  stove  and  rocks.  There  is  silence 
for  a  long  space,  the  old  woman  rocking  and 
the  woman  on  the  bed  giving  an  occasional 
low  sigh  or  groan.  At  last  the  old  woman 
speaks.] 


SHORT  PLAYS 


THE  OLD  WOMAN.  David 
might  be  kapin'  the  Christmas  wid  us  to-morrow 
night  if  we  hadn't  left  the  ould  counthry. 
They'd  never  be  crossin'  the  sea  —  all  the  many 
weary  miles  o'  wetness  an'  fog  an'  cold  to  be 
kapin'  it  wid  us  here  in  this  great  house  o'  brick 
walls  in  a  place  full  o'  strange  souls.  They 
would  never  be  for  crossin'  all  that  weary,  cold, 
green  wather,  groanin'  an'  tossin'  like  it  was  the 
grave  o'  sivin  thousan'  divils.  Ah,  but  it  would 
be  a  black  night  at  sea !  [She  remains  silent  for 
a  few  minutes,  staring  at  the  stove  and  rocking 
slowly. ,]  If  they  hadn't  to  cross  that  wet,  cold 
sea  they'd  maybe  come.  But  wouldn't  they  be 
afeard  o'  this  great  city,  an'  would  they  iver  find 
us  here?  Six  floors  up,  an'  they  niver  off  the 
ground  in  their  lives.  What  would  ye  be  think- 
in'?  [The  other  woman  does  not  answer  her. 
She  then  speaks  petulantly."]  What  would  ye  be 
thinkin'?  Mary,  have  ye  gone  clane  to  slape? 
[  Turns  her  chair  and  peers  around  the  back  of  it 
at  the  pallid  woman  on  the  bed,  who  sighs  and 
answers.  ] 

THE  WOMAN.  No,  I  on'y  wisht  I  could. 
Maybe  they'll  come  —  I  don't  know,  but  father 
an'  Michael  wasn't  much  for  thravel.  [After  a 
pause  and  very  wearily.']  Maybe  they'll  not 
come,  yet  [slowly~\  maybe  I'll  be  kapin'  the 
Christmas  wid  them  there.  [The  Old  Woman 
seems  not  to  notice  this,  wandering  from  her 
question  back  to  her  memories.'] 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  No,  they'll  niver  be  lav- 
in'  the  ould  land,  the  green  land,  the  home  land. 
I'm  wishing  I  was  there  wid  thim.  [Another 

2 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


pause,  while  she  stares  at  the  stove.]  Maybe 
we'd  have  a  duck  an'  potatoes,  an'  maybe  some 
thing  to  drink  to  kape  us  warm  against  the  cold. 
An'  the  boys  would  all  be  dancin'  an'  the  girls 
have  rosy  cheeks.  [There  is  another  pause,  and 
then  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  the  two 
women  call,  in  reedy,  weak  voices,  and  a  thin, 
slatternly  Irish  woman  enters.] 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Good  avnin'  to  ye;  I  came 
in  to  ask  if  I  might  borrow  the  loan  o'  a  bit  o' 
tay,  not  havin'  a  leaf  of  it  left. 

THE  WOMAN.  We  have  a  little  left,  just 
enough  we  was  savin'  for  ourselves  to-night,  but 
you're  welcome  to  it  —  maybe  the  girls  will 
bring  some.  Will  ye  get  it  for  her,  mother? 
Or  she  can  help  herself  —  it's  in  the  safe.  It's 
on  the  lower  shelf  among  the  cups  an'  saucers 
an'  plates.  [The  Old  Woman  and  Neighbor  go 
to  the  safe  and  hunt  for  the  tea,  and  do  not  find  it 
readily.  The  safe  has  little  in  it  but  a  few 
cracked  and  broken  dishes.] 

THE  NEIGHBOR  [holding  up  a  tiny  paper  bag 
with  an  ounce  perhaps  of  tea  in  it].  It's  just  a 
scrap ! 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  To  be  sure !  We  use  so 
much  tay!  We're  that  exthravagant ! 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  It  hurts  me  to  take  it  from 
ye  —  maybe  I'd  better  not. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  The  girls  will  bring 
more.  We  always  have  a  cupboard  full  o' 
things.  We're  always  able  to  lend  to  our  neigh 
bors. 

^  THE  NEIGHBOR.     It's  in  great  luck,  ye  are. 
For  some  of  us  be  so  poor  we  don't  know  where 

3 


SHORT  PLAYS 


the  next  bite's  comin'  from.  An'  this  winter  whin 
iverything's  so  high  an'  wages  not  raised,  a 
woman  can't  find  enough  to  cook  for  her  man's 
dinner.  It  isn't  that  ye  don't  see  things  —  oh, 
they're  in  the  markets  an'  the  shops,  an'  it  makes 
yer  mouth  wather  as  ye  walk  along  the  sthrates 
this  day  before  the  Christmas  to  see  the  turkeys 
an'  the  ducks  ye'll  niver  ate,  an'  the  little  pigs 
an'  the  or'nges  an'  bananies  an'  cranberries  an' 
the  cakes  an'  nuts  an' —  it's  worse,  I'm  thinkin', 
to  see  thim  whin  there's  no  money  to  buy  than  it 
was  in  the  ould  counthry,  where  there  was  noth 
ing  to  buy  wid  the  money  ye  didn't  have. 

THE  WOMAN.  It's  all  one  to  us  poor  folk 
whether  there  be  things  to  buy  or  not.  [She 
speaks  gaspingly,  as  one  who  is  short  of  breath.'] 
I'm  on'y  thinkin'  o'  the  clane  air  at  home  —  if 
I  could  have  a  mornin'  o'  fresh  sunshine  —  these 
fogs  an'  smoke  choke  me  so.  The  girls  would 
take  me  out  to  the  counthry  if  they  had  time  an' 
I'd  get  well.  But  they  haven't  time.  [She  falls 
into  a  fit  of  coughing.] 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  But  it's  like  to  be  bright 
on  Christmas  Day.  It  wouldn't  iver  be  cloudy 
on  Christmas  Day,  an'  maybe  even  now  the  stars 
would  be  crapin'  out  an'  the  air  all  clear  an'  cold 
an'  the  moon  a-shinin'  an'  iverything  so  sthill 
an'  quiet  an'  gleamin'  an'  breathless  [her  voice 
falls  almost  to  a  whisper],  awaitin'  on  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  [She  goes  to  the  window,  lifts 
the  blind,  and  peers  out,  then  throws  up  the  sash 
and  leans  far  out.  After  a  moment  she  pulls  the 
sash  down  again  and  the  blind  and  turns  to  those 
in  the  room  with  the  look  of  pathetic  disappoint- 

4 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


ment  in  little  things  of  the  aged.]  No,  there's 
not  a  sthar,  not  one  little  twinldin'  sthar,  an' 
how'll  the  shepherds  find  their  way?  Ivery- 
thing's  dull  an'  black  an'  the  clouds  are  hangin' 
down  heavy  an'  sthill.  How'll  the  shepherds 
find  their  way  without  the  sthar  to  guide  thim? 
[Then  almost  whimpering^}  An'  David  an* 
Michael  will  niver  be  crossin'  that  wet,  black  seal 
An'  the  girls  —  how'll  they  find  their  way  home? 
They'll  be  lost  somewhere  along  by  the  hedges. 
Ohone,  ohone! 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Now,  grannie,  what  would 
ye  be  sayin'?  There's  niver  a  hedge  anywhere 
but  granite  blocks  an'  electric  light  poles  an' 
plenty  o'  light  in  the  city  for  thim  to  see  all  their 
way  home.  [Then  to  the  woman.}  Ain't  they 
late? 

THE  WOMAN.  They're  always  late,  an'  they 
kape  gettin'  lather  an'  lather. 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Yis,  av  coorse,  the  sthores 
is  all  open  in  the  avnin's  before  Christmas. 

THE  WOMAN.  They  go  so  early  in  the  morn- 
in'  an'  get  home  so  late  at  night,  an'  they're  so 
tired. 

THE  NEIGHBOR  [whimnaly].  They're  lucky 
to  be  young  enough  to  work  an'  not  be  married. 
I've  got  to  go  home  to  the  childer  an'  give  thim 
their  tay.  Pat's  gone  to  the  saloon  again,  an* 
to-morrow  bein'  Christmas  I  misdoubt  he'll  be 
terrible  dhrunk  again,  an'  me  on'y  jist  well  from 
the  blow  in  the  shoulder  the  last  time.  [She 
wipes  her  eyes  and  moves  towards  the  door.} 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Sthay  an'  kape  Christ 
mas  wid  us.  We're  goin'  to  have  our  celebratin' 

5 


SHORT  PLAYS 


to-night  on  Christmas  Eve,  the  way  folks  do 
here.  I  like  it  best  on  Christmas  Day,  the  way 
'tis  in  the  ould  counthry,  but  here  'tis  Christmas 
Eve  they  kapc.  We're  waitin'  for  the  girls  to 
come  home  to  start  things  —  they  knowin'  how 
—  Mary  an'  me  on'y  know  how  to  kape  Christ 
mas  Day  as  'tis  at  home.  But  the  girls'll  soon 
be  here,  an'  they'll  have  the  tree  an'  do  the  cook- 
in'  an'  all,  an'  we'll  kape  up  the  jollity  way  into 
the  night. 

THE  NEIGHBOR  {looks  questioningly  and  sur 
prised  at  the  Woman,  whose  eyes  are  on  the 
mother."]  Nay,  if  Pat  came  home  dhrunk  an' 
didn't  find  me,  he'd  kill  me.  We  have  all  to 
be  movin'  on  to  our  own  throubles.  [She  goes 
out,  and  the  old  woman  leaves  the  Christmas-tree 
which  she  has  been  fingering  and  admiring,  and 
sits  down  in  the  rocking-chair  again.  After  a 
while  she  croons  to  herself  in  a  high,  broken 
voice.  This  lasts  some  time,  when  there  is  the 
noise  of  a  slamming  door  and  then  of  footsteps 
approaching.'] 

THE  WOMAN.  If  I  could  on'y  be  in  the  coun 
thry! 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Maybe  that  would  be 
the  girls!  [She  starts  tremblingly  to  her  feet, 
but  the  steps  come  up  to  the  door  and  go  by.~] 
If  David  and  Michael  was  to  come  now  an'  go 
by  —  there  bein'  no  sthar  to  guide  thim! 

THE  WOMAN.  Nay,  mother,  'twas  the  shep 
herds  that  was  guided  by  the  sthar  an'  to  the  bed 
o'  the  Blessed  Babe. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Aye,  so  'twas.  What 
be  I  thinkin'  of?  The  little  Blessed  Babe! 

6 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


[She  smiles  and  sits  staring  at  the  stove  again 
for  a  lit  tie. ~\  But  they  could  not  find  Him  to 
night.  'Tis  so  dark  an'  no  sthars  shinin'. 
[After  another  pause.']  An'  what  would  shep 
herds  do  in  a  ghreat  city?  'Twould  be  lost 
they'd  be,  quicker  than  in  any  bog.  Think  ye, 
Mary,  that  the  boys  would  be  hootin'  thim  an' 
the  p'lice,  maybe,  would  want  to  be  aristin'  thim 
for  loitherin'.  They'd  niver  find  the  Blessed 
Babe,  an'  they'd  have  to  be  movin'  on.  [An 
other  pause,  and  then  there  is  the  sound  of  ap 
proaching  footsteps  again.  The  Old  Woman 
grasps  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  leans  forward, 
intently  listening.]  That  would  sure  be  the  girls 
this  time  !  [But  again  the  footsteps  go  by.  The 
Old  Woman  sighs.~\  Ah,  but  'tis  weary  waitin' ! 
[There  is  another  long  pause.]  'Twas  on  that 
day  that  David  an'  me  was  plighted  —  a  brave 
Christmas  Day  wid  a  shinin'  sun  an'  a  sky  o' 
blue  wid  fair,  white  clouds.  An'  David  an'  me 
met  at  the  early  mass  in  the  dark  o'  the  frosty 
mornin'  afore  the  sun  rose  —  an'  there  was  all 
day  good  times  an'  a  duck  for  dinner  and  pud- 
din's  an'  a  party  at  the  O'Brady's  in  the  evenin', 
whin  David  an'  me  danced.  Ah,  but  he  was  a 
beautiful  dancer,  an'  me,  too  —  I  was  as  light  on 
my  feet  as  a  fairy.  [She  begins  to  croon  an  old 
dance  tune  and  hobbles  to  her  feet,  and,  keeping 
time  with  her  head,  tries  a  grotesque  and  feeble 
sort  of  dancing.  Her  eyes  brighten  and  she 
smiles  proudly. ,]  Aye,  but  I  danced  like  a  fairy, 
an'  there  was  not  another  couple  so  sprightly  an' 
handsome  in  all  the  country.  [She  tires,  and, 
looking  pitiful  and  disappointed,  hobbles  back  to 

7 


SHORT  PLAYS 


her  chair,  and  drops  into  it  again.]  Ah,  but  I 
be  old  now,  and  the  strength  fails  me.  [She 
falls  into  silence  for  a  few  minutes.]  'Twas  the 
day  before  the  next  Christmas  that  Michael  was 
born  —  the  little  man,  the  little  white  dove,  my 
little  son!  [There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and 
then  the  pallid  woman  on  the  bed  has  a  violent  fit 
of  coughing.] 

THE  WOMAN.  Mother,  could  ye  get  me  a 
cup  o'  wather?  If  the  girls  was  here  to  get  me 
a  bite  to  ate,  maybe  it  would  kape  the  breath  in 
me  the  night. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  [starts  and  stares  at  her 
daughter,  as  if  she  hardly  comprehended  the 
present  reality.  She  gets  up  and  goes  over  to 
the  window  under  which  there  is  a  pail  full  of 
water.  She  dips  some  out  in  a  tin  cup  and  car 
ries  it  to  her  bed.]  Ye  should  thry  to  get  up  an* 
move  about  some,  so  ye  can  enjoy  the  Christmas 
threat.  'Tis  bad  bein'  sick  on  Christmas. 
Thry,  now,  Mary,  to  sit  up  a  bit.  The  girls'll  be 
wantin'  ye  to  be  merry  wid  the  rest  av  us. 

THE  WOMAN  [looking  at  her  mother  with  a 
sad  wist fulness.]  I  wouldn't  spoil  things  for  the 
girls  if  I  could  help.  Maybe,  mother,  if  ye'd 
lift  me  a  little  I  could  sit  up.  [The  Old  Woman 
tugs  at  her,  and  she  herself  tries  hard  to  get  into 
a  sitting  posture,  but  after  some  efort  and  pant 
ing  for  breath,  she  falls  back  again.  After  a 
pause  for  rest,  she  speaks  gaspingly. ]  Maybe 
I'll  feel  sthronger  lather  whin  the  girls  come 
home  —  they  could  help  me  —  [with  the  plaint  of 
longing  in  her  voice]  they  be  so  late  !  [After  an 
other  pause.]  Maybe  I'll  be  sthrong  again  in 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


the  mornin' —  if  I'd  had  a  cup  of  coffee. —  May 
be  I  could  get  up  —  an'  walk  about  —  an'  do  the 
cookin'.  [There  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
again  they  call,  "  Come  in"  in  reedy,  weak 
voices.  There  enters  a  little  messenger  boy  in  a 
ragged  overcoat  that  reaches  almost  to  his  heels. 
His  eyes  are  large  and  bright,  his  face  pale  and 
dirty,  and  he  is  fearfully  tired  and  worn.] 

THE  WOMAN.  Why,  Tim,  boy,  come  in. 
Sit  ye  down  an'  rest,  ye're  lookin'  weary. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Come  to  the  stove,  Tim- 
mie,  man,  an'  warm  yourself.  We  always  kape 
a  warm  room  an'  a  bright  fire  for  our  visitors. 

THE  BOY.  I  was  awful  cold  an'  hungry  an'  I 
come  home  to  get  somethin'  to  eat  before  I 
started  out  on  another  trip,  but  my  sisters  ain't 
home  from  the  store  yit,  an'  the  fire's  gone  out 
in  the  stove,  an'  the  room's  cold  as  outside.  I 
thought  maybe  ye'd  let  me  come  in  here  an'  git 
warm. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Poor  orphan!  Poor 
lamb !  To  be  shure  ye  shall  get  warm  by  our 
sthove. 

THE  BOY.  The  cars  are  so  beastly  col'  an' 
so  crowded  a  feller  mostly  has  to  stand  on  the 
back  platform.  [The  Old  Woman  takes  him  by 
the  shoulder  and  pushes  him  toward  the  stove, 
but  he  resists.] 

THE  BOY.  No,  thank  ye  —  I  don't  want  to 
go  so  near  yet;  my  feet's  all  numb  an'  they  allays 
hurt  so  when  they  warms  up  fast. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Thin  sit  ye  down  off 
from  the  sthove.  [Moves  the  rocking-chair 
farther  away  from  the  stove  for  him.] 

9 


SHORT  PLAYS 


THE  BOY.  If  ye  don't  mind  I'd  rather  stand 
on  'em  'til  they  gets  a  little  used  to  it.  They 
been  numb  off  an'  on  mos'  all  day. 

THE  WOMAN.  Soon  as  yer  sisters  come, 
Timmie,  ye'd  betther  go  to  bed — 'tis  the  best 
place  to  get  warm. 

THE  BOY.  I  can't  —  I  got  most  a  three-hour 
trip  yet.  I  won't  get  home  any  'fore  midnight 
if  I  don't  get  lost,  and  maybe  I'll  get  lost  —  I 
did  onct  out  there.  I've  got  to  take  a  box  o' 
'Merican  Beauty  roses  to  a  place  eight  mile  out, 
an'  the  house  ain't  on  the  car  track,  but  nearly 
a  mile  off,  the  boss  said.  I  wisht  they  could  wait 
till  mornin',  but  the  orders  was  they  just  got  to 
get  the  roses  to-night.  You  see,  out  there  they 
don'  have  no  gas  goin'  nights  when  there's  a 
moon,  an'  there'd  ought  to  be  a  moon  to-night, 
on'y  the  clouds  is  so  thick  there  ain't  no  light  gets 
through. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  There's  no  sthar  shinin' 
to-night,  Tim.  [She  shakes  her  head  ominously. 
She  goes  to  the  window  for  the  second  time, 
opens  it  as  before,  and  looks  out.  Shutting  the 
window,  she  comes  back  and  speaks  slowly  and 
sadly. ,]  Niver  a  sthar.  An'  the  shepherds  will 
be  havin'  a  hard  time,  Tim,  like  you,  findin'  their 
way. 

THE  BOY.  Shepherds?  In  town?  What 
shepherds  ? 

THE  WOMAN.  She  manes  the  shepherds  on 
Christmas  Eve  that  wint  to  find  the  Blessed  Babe, 
Jesus. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  'Tis  Christmas  Eve, 
Timmie;  ye  haven't  forgot  that,  have  ye? 

10 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


THE  BOY.  You  bet  I  ain't.  I  know  pretty 
well  when  Christmas  is  comin',  by  the  way  I  got 
to  hustle,  an'  the  size  of  the  boxes  I  got  to  carry. 
Seems  as  if  my  legs  an'  me  would  like  to  break 
up  pardnership.  I  got  to  work  till  midnight 
every  night,  an'  I'm  so  sleepy  I  drop  off  in  the 
cars  whenever  I  get  a  seat.  An'  the  girls  is  at 
the  store  so  early  an'  late  they  don't  get  time  to 
cook  me  nothin'  to  eat. 

THE  WOMAN.     Be  ye  hungry,  Timmie? 

THE  BOY  [diffidently  and  looking  at  the  floor']. 
No,  I  ain't  hungry  now. 

THE  WOMAN.     Be  ye  shure,  Timmie? 

THE  BOY.     Oh,  I  kin  go  till  I  git  home. 

THE  WOMAN.  Mother,  can't  you  find  some 
thing  for  him  to  ate? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  To  be  shure,  to  be  shure. 
[Bustling  about.]  We  always  kapes  a  full  cup 
board  to  thrate  our  neighbors  wid  whin  they 
comes  in.  [She  goes  to  the  empty  safe  and 
fusses  in  it  to  find  something.  She  pretends  to 
be  very  busy,  and  then  glances  around  at  the  boy 
with  a  sly  look  and  a  smile. ~\  Ah,  Timmie,  lad, 
what  would  ye  like  to  be  havin',  now?  If  you 
had  the  wish  o'  yer  heart  for  yer  Christmas  din 
ner  an'  a  good  fairy  to  set  it  all  afore  ye?  Ye'd 
be  wishin'  maybe,  for  a  fine  roast  duck,  to  be 
gin  wid,  in  its  own  gravies  an'  some  apple  sauce 
to  go  wid  it;  an'  ye'd  be  thinkin'  o'  a  little  bit 
o'  pig  nicely  browned  an'  a  plate  o'  potatoes;  an' 
the  little  fairy  woman  would  be  bringin'  yer  pud- 
din's  an'  nuts  an'  apples  an'  a  dish  o'  the  swatest 
tay.  [The  Boy  smiles  rather  ruefully. ,] 

II 


SHORT  PLAYS 


THE  WOMAN.  But,  mother,  you're  not  get- 
tin'  Tim  something  to  ate. 

THE  BOY.  She's  makin'  me  mouth  water  all 
right.  [The  Old  Woman  goes  back  to  her 
search,  but  again  turns  about  with  a  cunning  look, 
and  says  to  the  boy:] 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Maybe  ye'll  meet  that 
little  fairy  woman  out  there  in  the  counthry 
road  where  ye're  takin'  the  roses !  [Nods  her 
head  knowingly,  turning  to  the  safe  again.] 
Here's  salt  an'  here's  pepper  an'  here's  mustard 
an'  a  crock  full  o'  sugar,  an',  oh!  Tim,  here's 
some  fine  cold  bacon  —  fine,  fat,  cold  bacon  — 
an'  here's  half  a  loaf  o'  white  wheat  bread !  Why, 
Timmie,  lad,  that's  just  the  food  to  make  boys 
fat!  Ye'll  grow  famously  on  it.  'Tis  a  supper, 
whin  ye  add  to  it  a  dhrop  o'  iligant  milk,  that's 
fit  for  a  king.  [She  bustles  about  with  great 
show  of  being  busy  and  having  much  to  prepare. 
Puts  the  plate  of  cold  bacon  upon  the  table 
where  stands  the  stunted  bit  of  an  evergreen-tree, 
then  brings  the  half-loaf  of  bread  and  cuts  it 
into  slices,  laying  pieces  of  bacon  on  the  slices  of 
bread.  Then  she  pours  out  a  glass  of  milk  from 
a  dilapidated  and  broken  pitcher  in  the  safe  and 
brings  it  to  the  table,  the  Boy  all  the  while  watch 
ing  her  hungrily.  At  last  he  says  rather  apolo 
getically  to  the  woman.] 

THE  BOY.  I  ain't  had  nothin'  since  a  wiener- 
wurst  at  eleven  o'clock. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Now,  dhraw  up,  Tim 
mie,  boy,  an'  ate  yer  fill;  ye're  more  thin  wel 
come.  [The  boy  does  not  sit  down,  but  stands 

12 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


by  the  table  and  eats  a  slice  of  bread  and  bacon, 
drinking  from  the  glass  of  milk  occasionally. ] 

THE  WOMAN.  Don't  they  niver  give  ye  noth- 
in'  to  ate  at  the  gran'  houses  when  ye'd  be  takin' 
the  roses? 

THE  BOY.  Not  them.  They'd  as  soon  think 
o'  feedin'  a  telephone  or  an  automobile  as  me. 

THE  WOMAN.  But  don't  they  ask  ye  in  to 
get  warm  whin  ye've  maybe  come  so  far? 

THE  BOY.  No,  they  don't  seem  to  look  at 
me  'zacly  like  a  caller.  They  generally  steps  out 
long  enough  to  sign  the  receipt-book  an'  shut  the 
front  door  behin'  'em  so  as  not  to  let  the  house 
ge  col'  the  length  o'  time  I'm  standin'  there. 
Well,  I'm  awful  much  obleeged  to  ye.  Now,  I 
got  to  be  movin'  on. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Sthop  an'  cilibrate  the 
Christmas  wid  us.  We  ain't  started  to  do  noth- 
in'  yet  because  the  girls  haven't  come  —  they 
know  how  [nodding  her  head~\  —  an'  they're  go- 
in'  to  bring  things  —  all  kinds  o'  good  things 
to  ate  an'  a  branch  of  rowan  berries  —  ah,  boy, 
a  great  branch  o'  powan  wid  scarlet  berries  shin- 
in'  [gesticulating  and  with  gleaming  eyes~\,  an' 
we'll  all  be  merry  an'  kape  it  up  late  into  the 
night. 

THE  BOY  [in  a  little  fear  of  her~\.  I  guess 
it's  pretty  late  now.  I  got  to  make  that  trip  an' 
I  guess  when  I  get  home  I'll  be  so  sleepy  I'll  jus' 
tumble  in.  Ye've  been  awful  good  to  me,  an'  it's 
the  first  time  I  been  warm  to-day.  Good-by. 
[He  starts  towards  the  door,  but  the  Old  Woman 
follows  him  and  speaks  to  him  coaxingly.~\ 

13 


SHORT  PLAYS 


THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Ah,  don't  ye  go, 
Michael,  lad!  Now,  bide  wid  us  a  bit.  [The 
Boy,  surprised  at  the  name,  looks  queerly  at  the 
Old  Woman,  who  then  stretches  out  her  arms  to 
him,  and  says  beseechingly:]  Ah,  boy,  ah, 
Mike,  bide  wid  us,  now  ye've  come !  We've 
been  that  lonesome  widout  ye ! 

THE  BOY  [frightened  and  shaking  his  head]. 
I've  got  to  be  movin'. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  No,  Michael,  little  lamb, 
no! 

THE  BOY  [almost  terrified,  watching  her  with 
staring  eyes,  and  backing  out~\.  I  got  to  go! 
[The  Boy  goes  out,  and  the  Old  Woman  breaks 
into  weeping,  totters  over  to  her  old  rocking-chair 
and  drops  into  it,  rocks  to  and  fro,  wailing  to 
herself.] 

THE  OLD  W°MAN-  Oh,  to  have  him  come  an' 
go  again,  my  little  Michael,  my  own  little  lad ! 

THE  WOMAN.  Don't  ye,  dearie;  now,  then, 
don't  ye !  'Twas  not  Michael,  but  just  our  little 
neighbor  boy,  Tim.  Ye  know,  por  lamb,  now 
if  ye'll  thry  to  remember,  that-father  an'  Michael 
is  gone  to  the  betther  land  an'  us  is  left. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Nay,  nay,  'tis  the  fairies 
that  took  thim  an'  have  thim  now,  kapin'  thim 
an'  will  not  ever  give  thim  back. 

THE  WOMAN.  Whisht,  mother!  Spake  not 
of  the  little  folk  on  the  Holy  Night!  [Crosses 
herself.]  Have  ye  forgot  the  time  o'  all  the 
year  it  is?  Now,  dhry  yer  eyes,  dearie,  an'  thry 
to  be  cheerful  like  fore  the  girls  be  comin'  home. 
[A  noise  is  heard,  the  banging  of  a  door  and 
footsteps."]  Thim  be  the  girls  now,  shure  they 

14 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


be  comin'  at  last.  [But  the  sound  of  footsteps 
dies  away.~\  But  they'll  be  comin'  soon. 
[Wearily,  but  with  the  inveterate  hope."} 

[The  two  women  relapse  into  silence  again, 
which  is  undisturbed  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  to 
gether  in  quavering,  reedy  voices,  they  call, 
"  Come  in,"  as  before.  There  enters  a  tall, 
big,  broad-shouldered  woman  with  a  cold, 
discontented,  hard  look  upon  the  face  that 
might  have  been  handsome  some  years 
back;  still,  in  her  eyes,  as  she  looks  at  the 
pallid  woman  on  the  bed,  there  is  some 
thing  that  denotes  a  softness  underneath  it 
all.-] 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Good  avnin'  to  ye! 
We're  that  pleased  to  see  our  neighbors! 

THE  NEIGHBOR  [without  paying  any  attention 
to  the  Old  Woman,  but  entirely  addressing  the 
woman  on  the  bed].  How's  yer  cough? 

THE  WOMAN.  Oh,  it's  jist  the  same  —  may 
be  a  little  betther.  If  I  could  on'y  get  to  the 
counthry !  But  the  girls  must  be  workin' —  they 
haven't  time  to  take  me.  Sit  down,  won't  ye? 
[The  Neighbor  goes  to  the  bed  and  sits  down  on 
the  foot  of  it.~\ 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  I'm  most  dead,  I'm  so  tired. 
I  did  two  washin's  to-day  —  went  out  and  did 
one  this  mornin'  and  then  my  own  after  I  come 
home  this  afternoon.  I  jus'  got  through  sprink- 
lin'  it  an'  I'll  iron  to-morrow. 

THE  WOMAN.     Not  on  Christmas  Day! 
THE   NEIGHBOR   [with  a  sneer].     Christmas 
Day!     Did  ye  hear  'bout  the  Beckers?     Well, 

15 


SHORT  PLAYS 


they  was  all  put  out  on  the  sidewalk  this  after 
noon.  Becker's  been  sick,  ye  know,  an'  ain't  paid 
his  rent  an'  his  wife's  got  a  two  weeks'  old  baby. 
It  sort  o'  stunned  Mis'  Becker,  an'  she  sat  on 
one  of  the  mattresses  out  there  an'  wouldn't 
move,  an'  nobody  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  her. 
But  they  ain't  the  only  ones  has  bad  luck  — 
Smith,  the  painter,  fell  off  a  ladder  an'  got  killed. 
They  took  him  to  the  hospital,  but  it  wasn't  no 
use  —  his  head  was  all  mashed  in.  His  wife's 
got  them  five  boys  an'  Smith  never  saved  a  cent, 
though  he  warn't  a  drinkin'  man.  It's  a  good 
thing  Smith's  children  is  boys  —  they  can  make 
their  livin'  easier! 

THE  WOMAN  [smiling  faintly. ~\  Ain't  ye  got 
no  cheerful  news  to  tell?  It's  Christmas  Eve, 
ye  know. 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Christmas  Eve  don't  seem 
to  prevent  people  from  dyin'  an'  bein'  turned  out 
o'  house  an'  home.  Did  ye  hear  how  bad  the 
dipthery  is?  They  say  as  how  if  it  gits  much 
worse  they'll  have  to  close  the  school  in  our 
ward.  Two  o'  the  Homan  childern's  dead  with 
it.  The  first  one  wasn't  sick  but  two  days,  an' 
they  say  his  face  all  turned  black  'fore  he  died. 
But  it's  a  good  thing  they're  gone,  for  the 
Homans  ain't  got  enough  to  feed  the  other  six. 
Did  ye  hear  'bout  Jim  Kelly  drinkin'  again? 
Swore  off  for  two  months,  an'  then  took  to  it 
harder'n  ever  —  perty  near  killed  the  baby  one 
night. 

THE  WOMAN  [with  a  wan,  beseeching  smile~\. 
Won't  you  please  not  tell  me  any  more?  It  just 
breaks  me  heart. 

16 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


THE  NEIGHBOR  [grimly].  I  ain't  got  no 
other  kind  o'  news  to  tell.  I  s'pose  I  might's 
well  go  home. 

THE  WOMAN.  No,  don't  ye  go.  I  like  to 
have  ye  here  when  ye're  kinder. 

THE  NEIGHBOR  [fingering  the  bed  clothes  and 
smoothing  them  over  the  woman].  Well,  it's 
gettin'  late,  an'  I  guess  ye  ought  to  go  to  sleep. 

THE  WOMAN.  Oh,  no,  I  won't  go  to  slape 
till  the  girls  come.  They'll  bring  me  somethin' 
to  give  me  strength.  If  they'd  on'y  come  soon! 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  set  up  'til 
they  git  home? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  That  we  are.  We're 
kapin'  the  cilebratin'  till  they  come. 

THE  NEIGHBOR.    What  celebratin'? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Why,  the  Christmas,  to 
be  shure.  We're  goin'  to  have  high  jinks  to 
night.  In  the  ould  counthry  'tis  always  Christ 
mas  Day,  but  here  'tis  begun  on  Christmas  Eve, 
an'  we're  on'y  waitin'  for  the  girls,  because  they 
know  how  to  fix  things  betther  nor  Mary  an'  me. 

THE  NEIGHBOR  [staring].  But  ain't  they 
workin'  in  the  store? 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Yes,  but  they're  comin' 
home  early  to-night. 

THE  NEIGHBOR  {laughing  ironically].  Don't 
ye  fool  yerselves.  Why,  they've  got  to  work 
harder  to-night  than  any  in  the  whole  year. 

THE  WOMAN  [wistfully].  But  they  did  say 
they'd  thry  to  come  home  early. 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  The  store's  all  crowded  to 
night.  Folks  'at's  got  money  to  spend  never  re 
members  it  till  the  last  minute.  If  they  didn't 


SHORT  PLAYS 


have  none  they'd  be  thinkin'  'bout  it  long  ahead. 
Well,  I  got  to  be  movin'.  I  wouldn't  stay  awake, 
if  I  was  you. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Sthay  and  kape  the 
Christmas  wid  us!  We'll  be  havin'  high  jinks 
by  an'  by.  Sthay,  now,  an'  help  us  wid  our 
jollity ! 

THE  NEIGHBOR.  Nay,  I  left  my  children  in 
bed,  an'  I  got  to  go  back  to  'em.  An'  I  got  to 
get  some  rest  myself — I  got  that  ironin'  ahead 
o'  me  in  the  mornin'.  You  folks  better  get  yer 
own  rest.  [She  rises  and  walks  to  the  door."] 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  [beamingly],  David  an' 
Michael's  comin'.  [The  Neighbor  stands  with 
her  back  against  the  door  and  her  hand  on  the 
knob,  staring  at  the  Old  Woman."} 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  [smiling  rapturously]. 
Yis,  we're  goin'  to  have  a  gran'  time.  [The 
Neighbor  looks  puzzled  and  fearful  and  trou 
bled,  first  at  the  Woman  and  then  at  the  Old 
Woman.  Finally,  without  a  word,  she  opens  the 
door  and  goes  out.~\ 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  [going  about  In  a  tottering 
sort  of  dance."]  David  an'  Michael's  comin'  an' 
the  shepherds  for  the  fairies  will  show  thim  the 
way. 

THE  WOMAN.  If  the  girls  would  on'y  come! 
If  they'd  give  me  somethin'  so  as  I  wouldn't  be 
so  tired! 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  There's  niver  a  sthar  an' 
there's  nobody  to  give  thim  a  kind  word  an'  the 
counthry  roads  are  dark  an'  foul,  but  they've  got 
the  little  folk  to  guide  thim!  An'  whin  they 
reach  the  city  —  the  poor,  lonesome  shepherds 

18 


THE  SHADOWED  STAR 


from  the  hills !  —  they'll  find  naught  but  coldness 
an'  hardness  an'  hurry.  \_Questioningly.~]  Will 
the  fairies  show  thim  the  way?  Fairies'  eyes 
be  used  to  darkness,  but  can  they  see  where  it 
is  black  night  in  one  corner  an'  a  blaze  o'  light 
in  another?  [She  goes  to  the  window  for  the 
third  time,  opens  it  and  leans  far  out  for  a  long 
time,  then  turns  about  and  goes  on  in  her  mono- 
tone,  closing  the  window.  She  seems  by  this 
time  quite  to  have  forgotten  the  presence  of  the 
pallid  woman  on  the  bed,  who  has  closed  her 
eyes,  and  lies  like  one  dead.~\ 

THE  OLD  WOMAN.  Nay,  there's  niver  a 
sthar,  an'  the  clouds  are  hangin'  heavier  an'  lower 
an'  the  flakes  o'  snow  are  fallin'.  Poor  little 
folk  guidin'  thim  poor  lost  shepherds,  leadin' 
thim  by  the  hand  so  gently  because  there's  no 
others  to  be  kind  to  thim,  an'  bringin'  thim  to 
the  manger  o'  the  Blessed  Babe.  [She  comes 
over  to  her  rocking-chair  and  again  sits  down  in 
it,  rocks  slowly  to  and  fro,  nodding  her  head  in, 
time  to  the  motion.]  Poor  little  mite  of  a  babe, 
so  cold  an'  unwelcome  an'  forgotten  save  by  the 
silly  ould  shepherds  from  the  hills !  The  silly 
ould  shepherds  from  the  strength  o'  the  hills, 
who  are  comin'  through  the  darkness  in  the  lead 
o'  the  little  folk !  [She  speaks  slower  and  lower, 
and  finally  drops  into  a  quiet  crooning — it  stops 
and  the  Old  Woman  has  fallen  asleep.] 

[CURTAIN.] 

[While  the  curtain  'is  down  the  pallid,  sick 
woman  upon  the  bed  dies,  the  Old  Woman 
being  asleep  does  not  notice  the  slight  strug- 

19 


SHORT  PLAYS 


gle  with  death.  The  fire  has  gone  out  in 
the  stove,  and  the  light  in  the  lamp,  and 
the  stage  is  in  complete  darkness  when  the 
two  girls  come  stumbling  in.  They  are  too 
tired  to  speak,  too  weary  to  show  surprise 
that  the  occupants  of  the  room  are  not 
awake.  They  fumble  about,  trying  to  find 
matches  in  the  darkness,  and  finally  discover 
them  and  a  candle  in  the  safe.  They  light 
the  candle  and  place  it  upon  the  table  by  the 
scraggy  little  evergreen-tree.  They  turn 
about  and  discern  their  grandmother  asleep 
in  the  rocking-chair.  Hurriedly  they  turn 
to  the  bed  and  discover  their  mother  lying 
there  dead.  For  a  full  minute  they  stand 
gazing  at  her,  the  surprise,  wonder,  awe, 
misery  increasing  in  their  faces;  then  with 
screams  they  run  to  the  bed,  throw  them 
selves  on  their  knees  and  bury  their  faces, 
sobbing  in  the  bedclothes  at  the  Woman's 
feet.'] 

[CURTAIN.] 


20 


THE  RING. 

CHARACTERS   AS   THEY  APPEAR. 

HANNAH  DODSLEY,  the  wife  of  Peter. 

PETER  DODSLEY,  actor  and  stockholder  in   the 

Globe  Theater. 
KATHERINE  DODSLEY,  their  daughter. 

feHN'        \  servants  to  the  Dodsleys. 
(  WILLIAM,  J 

MISTRESS  CHETTLE,  friend  to  Mistress  Dodsley. 
ROBIN   WOODCOCK,   a  young   actor  who   takes 

wemvnt-s-  parts. 
A  GYPSY. 
RICHARD  POWELL,  a  young  playwright  in  love 

with  Katherine. 
A  TINKER. 

TIME:     The  days  of  Shakespeare. 

SCENE  :     The  house  of  Peter  Dodsley. 


[Peter  Dodsley 
rical  producer  and  is  well-to-do.  He  awns  a 
gwdly  house  that  has  almost  handsome  furni- 
tnrt'wrd^TS'nttifr'and.Qtderly,  thanks  to  the  care 
of  his  thrifty  Wife.  Peter  himself  -is.ja,middle- 
aged  man,  .given  a  little  to  portliness  ,  smooth 
and  well-kept,  contented  and  humorous.  He 
is  ^  very  spruce  and  well-dressed  in  a  suit  of 
brown,  velvet.  Hannah,  his  wife,  is  thin  and 
shrill-tongue  d;  she  is  over-dressed  in  a  gown  of 

21 


SHORT  PLAYS 


many  colors  and  she  lacks  a  sense  of  humor, 
like  ike  wive s  of  men  who  have  it.  She-takes 
life  hard.  The  scene  opens  showing  an  ex- 
tremely  neat  and  well-furnished  room.  There 
are  doors  on  either  side  and  at  the  back.  Han 
nah  sits  knitting  in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair 
by  an  oaken  table. ,] 

PETER  [from  behind  scenes'].  I  say!  What 
hast  thou  done  with  my  new  cloak  ?  Ho,  madam  1 

HANNAH.     Eh,  well,  what  is't? 

PETER  {coming  out  carrying  his  hat,  gloves, 
etc.].  My  new  cloak,  as  thou  well  knowest, 
brought  home  but  yesterday  at  sundown  from  the 
shop  by  the  tailor's  boy  and  by  noon  to-day  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  cavernous  maw  of  thy  excellent 
housekeeping.  When  thou  art  in  heaven  wilt 
thou  go  about  picking  stray  flying  feathers 
molted  from  the  angels'  wings,  and  pile  away  all 
the  harps  and  crowns  in  neat  rows  on  the  cup 
board  shelves? 

HANNAH.  Thou  talkest  of  heaven  too  inti 
mately,  Peter.  It  becomes  thee  ill. 

PETER.  But  my  new  coat  becomes  me  out 
of  all  seeming.  If  thou  couldst  but  find  it,  dear 
dame,  and  see  me  properly  housed  in  it,  then  thou 
wouldst  love  me  as  sweetly  as  on  that  May-day 
when  thy  round  cheeks  blossomed  at  sight  of  my 
adorable  curled  locks.  Dost  thou  remember, 
sweetheart,  how  madly  thou  didst  fall  in  love 
with  me? 

[He  stalks  about  the  room  and  finding  Kath- 
erine's  ring  on  the  mantel  shelf  he  picks  it 
up  and  puts  it  on  without,  however,  attract- 

22 

ik" 


THE  RING 


ing  the  attention  of  Hannah,  who  goes  on 
industriously  knitting  and  heeding  him  not.~\   ^ 

HANNAH.     Beshrew  me,  not  I.     'Twas  thou  f 
that  couldst  not  bear  to  let  me  out  of  thy  sight 
ten    minutes    running,    and    vowed    to    swallow 
poison  or  jump  into  the  Thames  if  I  would  not 
marry  thee. 

PETER.  Now  what  a  fool  I  wash  But  that 
is  of  small  matter  when  the  players  are  all  await 
ing  me  at  the  theater  and  I  must  have  my  new 
cloak  or  go  shamefaced  in  mine  ancient  rags  and 
tatters. 

HANNAH.     Thou  art  late  as  usual? 

PETER.     They  do  not  begin  the  play  till  I  ar-  ,>vuX. 
rive,  therefore  I  am  not  late. 

HANNAH.     And  goest  in  mad  hurry  as  ever? 

PETER.     Nay,  good  wife  [striking  an  attitude 
of  repose],  that  is  a  sin  that  even  thou  couldst  not'  A^ 
impute  to  me. 

HANNAH.  And  hast  left  thy  bedroom  turned 
upside  down  and  all  thy  clothing  in  disorderly 
heaps  upon  the  floor? 

PETER.  All,  save  my  new  cloak.  Thou  wilt 
find  the  rest  as  thou  hast  predicted.  But,  sweet 
coney,  I  must  be  gone.  Try  to  put  thy  mind 
upon  my  new  cloak  cather  than  upon  the  more 
unprofitable  ancient  livery.  If  thou  wouldst  put 
half  as  much  attention  upon  it  as  upon  ferreting 
out  my  more  unworthy  qualities,  'twould  be  here 
iira  trice. 

HANNAH.  Why  dost  thou  not  find  it  for  thy 
self? 

PETER.  Art  thou  angling  for  sugared  compli 
ments,  sweetheart?  For  thou  dost  know  that" I 

23 


SHORT  PLAYS 

V 

know  and  that  every  one  k<K>ws  that  there  was 
but  one  thing  ever  in  all  the  world  that  I  could 
find  well  —  and  that  a  fair  wife.  [He  waits 
for  this  to  sink  in.~\  Whereas  thou  couldst  ever 
find  anything  that  was  ever  lost  —  even  to  a  rich 
man's  soul. 

[Katherine  comes  in.  She  is  some  twenty  sum 
mers  old,  fair  and  slender  and  lovely,  what 
her  mother  might  have  been  at  her  age,  but 
with  her  father's  intelligence  and  wit.  She 
is  simply  clad  in  white  and  has  blue  eyes 
and  gold  brown  hair  —  a  Judith  Shake 
speare,  if  you  please.'} 

HANNAH.  Katherine,  go  fetch  your  father's 
new  cloak. 

KATHERINE  [to  her  father}.     Where  is  it,  sir? 
PETER.     Forsooth,  that  is  the  question  I  have 
asked  resolutely  for  an  hour  past. 

HANNAH.  It  is  on  the  second  shelf  from  the 
bottom  of  the  closet  in  thy  father's  bedroom. 
Hasten,  he  is  very  late. 

PETER  [with  a  -wink  at  her}.  What  a  brief 
memory  thou  hast,  Kate,  for  twas  surely  thou 
that  packed  away  my  cloak  since  neither  I  nor 
thy  mother  knew,  -aught-  abotit  it.  [Kate  goes 
out  smiling.] 

HANNAH.  'Tis  a  most  expensive  cloak  thou 
hast  bought.  Thou  spendest  money  as  if  thou 
wert  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

PETER.  And  thou  shalt  have  as  fine  a  gown 
of  flame  colored  taffeta  as  the  Lord  Mayor's 
lady,  for  the  theater  does  passing  well  and  I  have 
money  to  my  purse. 

24 


THE  RING 


HANNAH.  It  irks  me  to  buy  mine  apparel 
with  money  fetched  from  the  theater. 

PETER.  Thou  shouldst  not  have  a  soul  so  sen 
sitive.  'Twas  ever  thought  good  work  and  will 
be  ever  by  pious  Christians,  to  take  money  from 
the  devil  and  give  it  to  a  better  man. 

HANNAH.  Thou  consortest  there  with  a  pack 
of  scape-graces,  and  roysterers,  tavern-brawlers, 
pick-purses,  thieves,  villains,  rascals,  rogues, — 

PETER.  Hold,  hold!  Thou  dost  fill  the  jail 
faster  —  and  with  my  companions  and  familiar 
friends  —  than  doth  the  judge.  Alack,  alack! 
And  hang  London  bridge  thicker  with  heads  than 
raindrops  in  April,  [As  Katherine  comes  in 
again  carrying  his  cloak.']  Ah,  Kate,  thy  mother 
would  have  us  all  notorious  villains,  but,  be- 
shrew  me,  still  is  there  sport  in  life  and  gin 
ger  is  hot  i'  the  mouth.  To-day  we  play  Will 
Shakespeare's  merry  comedy  of  "Twelfth 
Night,"  and  so  [putting  on  his  cloak],  "  Anon,  sir, 
I'll  be  gone,  sir,  I'll  be  with  you  again  in  a  trice, 
like  to  the  old  vice  " —  [he  goes  on  out  singing  in 
a  full,  rich,  merry  voice']. 

[Katherine  and  Hannah,  being  left  alone, 
Katherine  goes  about  the  room  hunting  si 
lently  and  distractedly,  while  Hannah  talks.]  ft 

HANNAH.  Dame  Chettle  hath  a  new  gown. 
[Pause.'] 

Of  wondrous  heavy  silk.     [Pause.] 

'Tis  brocaded.  [Pause,  Hannah  glances  at 
Katherine.'] 

The  sleeves  are  deeply  slashed.      [Pause.] 

And  lined  with  yellow  taffeta.     [Pause.] 


SHORT  PLAYS 


'Tis  of  a  grass  green  color.  [Pause.  She 
glances  again  at  Kate.} 

i-m«aft-jthje~gp.w.n.  itself,     [Pause.'] 

And  laced  with  scarlet  ribbons.  [Pause.  She 
looks  sharply  at  Kate. 

And  trimmed  with  richest  lace.     [Pause.] 

The  whole  gown  is  most  richly  broidered  with 
gold.  [Pause.]  Some  might  think  Dame  Chet- 
tle's  figure  too  short  and  round  to  wear  a  gown 
so  ornamented.  Some  might  think  she  would  not 
carry  it  off  well.  [Pause.]  Gramercy,  Kate, 
what  aileth  thee?  [Katherine  starts  but  goes  on 
hunting  distractedly.]  Dost  thou  not  care  about 
Dame  Chettle's  gown? 

KATHERINE  [bursting  into  tears].  I  care  not 
about  Dame  Chettle's  gown,  nor  Dame  Chettle's 
taste,  nor  Dame  Chettle's  figure,  nor  anything 
that  is  Dame  Chettle's.  I've  lost  my  ring! 

HANNAH.  Now,  Katherine  Dodsley,  what 
wilt  be  telling  me? 

KATHERINE.  I've  lost  my  ring  that  Richard 
gave  me. 

HANNAH.  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  tell  me 
truly  that  thou  hast  lost  thy  ring? 

KATHERINE.  Dost  thou  think  I  would  be 
making  up  such  a  tale  for  thy  pleasure? 

HANNAH.     Where  didst  thou  lose  it? 

KATHERINE.     If  I  but  knew! 

HANNAH.     When  didst  thou  lose  it? 

KATHERINE.     If  I  but  knew ! 

HANNAH.     Nay,  but  how  didst  thou  lose  it? 

KATHERINE.     Nay,  and  if  I  but  knew ! 

HANNAH.     Didst  thou  have  it  at  dinner? 

KATHERINE.     Yes,  I  think  so. 
26 


THE  RING 


HANNAH.  Then  thou  must  have  dropped  it 
into  the  dish  of  stewed  prunes. 

KATHERINE.     Nay,  mother,  how  could  I? 

HANNAH.  Then  mayhap  it  slipped  off  when 
thou  wast  picking  a  chicken  wing.  Or  more  like 
it  slid  off  into  the  trencher  and  was  carried  out. 
Run  and  find  it  in  the  trencher. 

KATHERINE.  Nay,  I  must  use  all  my  wits  to 
discover  how  this  thing  chanced.  [She  stands  in 
deep  thought.] 

HANNAH.     A*    if    tFr.kiyg  -  woulj    ;u;J    the 
ring!      \Jumpmg  to    ler  feet.]     Htmt  for  it,  to/ 
be  sore,  hunt  for  it!     It  must  have  fallen  on  the 
floor.      [She    walks   around   stooping   and  peer 
ing]     Now  must  I  find  the  ring,  for  if  it  were    ^  f*~^ 
left  to  thy  father  or  thee,  it  w;ould  never  be  de-    ^x 
tected.      [Katherine  hunts,   too,   they   bump  into  \7 
each  other,  and  finally  are  both  down  on  their  ' 
hands  and  knees,  when  a  man  servant  looks  in 
at  the  door.      They  are  embarrassed,  he  averts 
his   eyes,   grins   and  retreats.      This   is   John,   a    u^jQ  % 
young,  thin,  red-haired  man  with  obtrusive  joints 
and  great  awkwardness.     He  grins  always  and  is 
a  stupid,  merry  lout.] 

HANNAH      [calling].     John,      come      hither. 
[John  enters,  shamefaced  and  awkward,  finger- 
1   ing    his    cap,    and    trying    hard    not    to    laugh.]  yj 
John,    your    young    mistress    hath    lost    a    ring. 
[John  ducks.]     We  were  looking  for  it  on  the 
V/>  ,noor  [John  ducks  again  and  putts  his  foretop], 
thinking  it  might  have  dropped.     You  may  con- 
^  Itinue  the  search.      [John  ducks,  then  looks  at  her 
j  enquiringly.]     Yes,  on  the  floor.      [John  imme 
diately    sprawls    on   his    knees.     Katherine   con- 

1    £  -  M£    >  -e^t*  * 

(f""j 


Uju-4 


tinues  to  hunt.  Hannah  sits  with  dignity  on  her 
chair,  as  before,  but  finally  the  dignity  gives  way 
to  curiosity,  and  she  is  soon  down  on  her  knees 
again.  Another  servant  pokes  his  head  in  at  the 
door,  is  surprised,  abashed,  but  curious,  and  re 
tires  with  evident  reluctance.  This  is  William. 
He  is  very  tall,  lean,  and  dark,  with  a  trifle  more 
brains  than  John  and  overweighted  with  the 
seriousness  of  everything.  Both  men  are  dressed 
in  dull-colored  clothing,  very  short  smocks  which 
give  prominence  to  their  awkward  legs.  Han 
nah  takes  her  chair  again  with  the  assump 
tion  of  great  dignity  and  calls  William  to  come 
back.] 

HANNAH.  William,  come  hither.  [William 
enters,  awkward,  serious  but  curious.~\  William, 
your  young  mistress  hath  lost  her  ring  and  we 
were  all  looking  for  it,  thinking,  perchance,  it  had 
dropped  to  the  floor.  [William  ducks  and  pulls 
his  foretop.~\  'Tis  a  most  costly  ring. 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  I  would  not  lose  it  for  all 
the  wealth  of  all  the  Indies! 

HANNAH.  'Twas  given  her  by  Master  Rich 
ard  Powell. 

WILLIAM  {pulling  his  foretop  with  great 
earnestness.'}  A  most  notable  gentleman. 

HANNAH.  And  we  have  endeavored  to  find 
it.  Do  you  search  diligently  with  John.  [Wil 
liam  with  slower  and  more  elaborate  awkward 
ness  sprawls  upon  the  floor  and  the  search  goes 
on  as  before,  Dame  Dodsley  joining  in  and  is 
upon  her  hands  and  knees  looking  under  a  set 
tle,  when  a  knock  is  heard  at  the  door  and  Dame 
Chettle  comes  immediately  bustling  in  and  is 

28 


u 
THE  RING 


amazed  at  the  scene.  Dame  Chettle  is  very 
short,  very  fat,  very  waddling.  She  is  contin 
ually  out  of  breath  and  she  wears  a  very  gay 
gown.] 

HANNAH  [getting  up  into  her  chair  as  before 
and  assuming  an  air  of  great  dignity'].  Good 
day  to  you,  Mistress  Chettle. 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Good  day  to  you. 

HANNAH.  You  see  us  in  sore  straits  and 
great  confusion.  My  daughter  hath  lost  a  ring. 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Ohl 

HANNAH.     'Tis  a  most  costly  ring. 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Oh! 

HANNAH.  'Twas  given  her  by  Master  Rich 
ard  Powell,  whom  as  you  know  she  will  marry 
soon. 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Oh! 

HANNAH.  It  came  from  Italy.  Katherine, 
did  thy  ring  not  come  from  Italy? 

KATHERINE.  Truly  it  came  from  Italy. 
Richard  bought  it  of  a  sea  captain  who  had  it 
from  an  Italian  gentleman  in  Venice. 

DAME   CHETTLE   [with   large,   staring   eyes]. 

KATHERINE.     'Tis  gold  — 

HANNAH  [interrupting].  Very  ancient  and 
heavy  and  fine. 

DAME  CHETTLE.    Oh! 

KATHERINE.     Set  with  pearls  — 

HANNAH  [interrupting.  Very  large  and  ele 
gant  and  fair. 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Oh! 

HANNAH.  And  she  dropped  it  on  the  floor 
after  dinner. 

29 


SHORT  PLAYS 


J 


KATHERINE.  Nay,  mother,  I  am  not  sure.  I 
think  it  is  not  on  the  floor. 

HANNAH.  Without  question,  'tis  on  the  floor 
—  where  else? 

KATHERINE.  Nay,  I  am  convinced  it  is  not 
on  the  floor. 

HANNAH.  Assuredly  'tis  on  the  floor.  Wil 
liam  and  John,  make  haste! 

WILLIAM  [rolling  over  and  sitting  up  on  the 
floor  and  pulling  his  front  lock  of  hair  towards 
Dame  Dodsley].  Mistress,  a  thief  went  by  the 
house  — 

HANNAH.  Then  he  has  taken  the  ring. 
William  and  John,  make  haste.  You  slow,  lazy, 
stupid  varletsl  Follow  him  —  run!  [They 
scramble  to  their  feet.~] 

KATHERINE.  Wait  a  little.  When  did  he 
pass? 

WILLIAM.     But  an  hour  ago. 

KATHERINE.     Was  he  an  Egyptian? 

WILLIAM.  Aye,  was  he  that  —  an  Egyptian, 
notably  black. 

HANNAH.  Then  he  has  the  ring.  Run, 
make  haste,  seek  him  out! 

[William  and  John  scamper  of.] 

KATHERINE.  Mother,  hast  thou  any  notion 
whither  this  Egyptian  went  and  how  they  may  dis 
cover  him? 

HANNAH.  Now  why  didst  thou  not  speak  of 
that  sooner?  They  have  undoubtedly  taken  the 
wrong  way,  being  so  witless.  I  will  after  them 
and  put  them  on  the  right  way.  [She  rushes  out.~\ 

DAME  CHETTLE.  And  will  she  know  the 
right  way? 

30 


THE  RING 


KATHERINE  [smiling].     No. 
sketkes-her  Jiead  witk--a -smile.] 

DAME  C KETTLE.     And  will  she  take  it? 
KATHERINE.     Assuredly  not. 
DAME  CHETTLE.     Then  I'd  best  be  after  her 
to  put  her  off  the  wrong  track. 

[She  bustles  out  and  runs  smack  into  Robin 
Woodcock  as  she  turns  round  at  the  door. 
Robin  is  an  exceedingly  beautiful  young  fel 
low,  blue-eyed,  slender,  lithe,  graceful,  yet 
with  not  a  jot  of  effeminacy  in  his  make-up. 
He  is  dressed  in  a  sort  of  Robin  Hood  cos 
tume  of  hunter's  green  and  dark  deep  rose, 
and  has  a  large  cock's  feather  in  his  cap, 
which    he   doffs    and   bows    with   sweeping 
ceremony  to  Mistress  Chettle,  who  has  the 
breath  completely  knocked  out  of  her.] 
ROBIN.     Gramercy !     Save     us     all !     I     beg 
your  pardon,  Mistress  Chettle.     [She  gives  him 
a  withering  look,  is  too  breathless  for  words,  and 
waddles    on    out.]     Katherine,    what    means    all 
this?     Has  thy  house,  being  crazy,  infected  the 
neighborhood?     First  I  meet  thy  two  men  run 
ning  like  mad  and  would  not  wait-  though  the 
devil  himself  would  offer  them  sack.     Then  do 
I  meet  thv  mother,  breathless^  and  speechless  — 
fa  Sv.y>*  Akw^4*v  v  krt^^nd  then  I  run  into 
that  wiiisomd  fairy,    Mistress   Chettle,   and  she 
glares  at  me  as  if  I,  being  the  foul  fiend,  were 
the  cause  of  all  this  undoing. 

KATHERINE.     Oh,   Robin,  make  no  mock  of 
us!     I  am  sore  distracted.     I  have  lost  my  ring. 
ROBIN.     Your  ring.     What  ring? 
KATHERINE.     Oh,  the  only  ring  of  any  con- 


SHORT  PLAYS 


sequence  in  the  whole  world.     The  ring  Richard 
gave  me. 

ROBIN  [rolling  his  eyes~\.     Then  may  heaven 
help  us! 

makes  for  him 


^  shakes  him  by  the  shoulders.]     Thou  little 
knave,  I  will  not  have  thee  make  a  mock  of  me! 

ROBIN.  Mock  of  thee?  When  would  I  ever 
dare?  I,  was  only  thinking  how  unfortunate  it 
is  that  the  *ing  was  not  my  gift,  the  which  thou 
mightest  the  ntpre  easily  dispense  with.  See  now, 
how  thou  mightest  be  advantaged  if  thou  hadst 
taken  my  little  ring? 

KATHERINE.  Therein,  Robin,  thou  tellest  a 
truth  that  no  maid  listens  to  nor  ever  will. 
Things  that  are  softly  won  and  surely  kept  are 
valued  less  than  the  more  difficult.  'Tis  true 
of  precious  stones  and  true  of  human  hearts. 
Perhaps  the  difficulty  adds  a  zest  —  who  knows  ? 
At  least  to  some  of  us  simplicity  and  ease  are  not 
the  charms  to  steal  away  our  hearts,  though  well 
we  know  that  with  them  lies  content.  1rfe»^en- 
est  joys  are  always  dearly  bought.  J  > 

ROBIN.  Which  means  that  Richard  hath  ^  a 
temper. 

KATHERINE.  Riehard~Ls,  .intricate..  ••-,  He--iioth 
combine  the  lion  and  the  lamb.  And  while  you 
fondle  the  soft  lamb,  you  must  have  a  care  that 
the  lion  doth  not  eat  you  up.  [She  says  this  as 
one  tells  the  end  of  a  fairy  tale  to  a  child,  with 
great  eyes  and  a  frightening  voice.]  I  fear  to 
have  him  learn  his  ring  is  gone,  for  he  hath  a 
fund  of  jealousy  I  would  might  be  converted  into 
something  mdre  useful. 

32 


THE  RING 


IRjQBiN,  Jealousy  is.  .-convertible  into  nothing 
save  tears. 

KATHERINE.  Why,  Robin,  thou  art  as  dreary 
-.  winter's  rain  and  quite  as-  comforting. 

ROBIN.  But  there  is  no  cause  for  jealousy  in 
this  ? 

KATHERINE.  A  jealous  heart  is  apt  to  mis 
construe  the  smallest  things.  Richard  thinks  my 
love  for  him  not  deep  enough.  UeJadieves  that 
hi&^for  me  could  .compass  mine  about  a  thousand 
times. 

ROBIN.  I  see.  Thy  sighs  do  not  reach  down 
to  thy  toes  and  the  earth  beneath,  as  his  do. 

KATHERINE  [smiling].  Thou  hast  caught  the 
spirit  of  it:  He  thinks  me  careless,  shallow,  un 
concerned.  If  he  but  knew  how  dear  I  tender 
him!  To  lose  his  ring  will  grieve  him  past  en 
durance. 

ROBIN.     How  do  you  think  'twas  lost? 

KATHERINE.  I  do  not  know.  I  have  no  re 
membrance  when  I  wore  it  last  or  where  I  may 
have  ta'en  it  off.  Thr^H-.45^icha-Fd'-right-»--«4 
am-wegligsnt,  .a  sorry  .  fault  for  which-  1  «iusfc~fl»w 


ROBIN.     Thou  hast  searched  for  it? 

KATHERINE.     Oh,  everywhere. 

ROBIN.  It  will  be  found,  and  in  the  mean 
time  do  not  let  Richard  know  'tis  gone. 

KATHERINE.     Suppose  he  asks  for  it? 

ROBIN.     Say  I  have  it. 

KATHERINE.     Thou  ? 

ROBIN.  Yes,  say  I  took  it  in  sport  to  tease 
thee  and  thou  couldst  not  get  it  back. 

33 


SHORT  PLAYS 


KATHERINE.  I  fear  that  would  make  sore 
trouble. 

ROBIN.  Nay,  he  could  not  blame  thee,  and  as 
for  me,  I  will  win  him  by  soft  conceits  and  cozen 
him  with  jests. 

KATHERINE.  I  do  misdoubt  it.  I  would  not 
have  thee  drawn  into  my  sad  entanglement, 
Robin. 

[A  noise  is  heard  without,  clamoring  and  shrill 
voices,    and   Mistress   Dodsley   enters,    fol 
lowed  by  Mistress  Chettle,  and  after  them 
a         William  and  John."] 
,*-HANNAH.     They  took  the  wrong  road  even 

predicted  and  the  Egyptian  escaped. 
s      DAME  CHETTLE  [panting  and  dropping  into  a 
.chair].     Oh,  my!     Oh,  my! 

HANNAH.  Shame  upon  you  for  witless 
knaves,  stupid  as  monkeys!  \William  and  John 
hang  their  heads  and  look  sheepish.]  The 
Egyptian  has  the  ring  without  doubt. 

ROBIN.  If  they  took  the  wrong  road,  why 
then  is  there  left  the  right  road. 

HANNAH.  William  and  John,  dost  hear  what 
Master  Woodcock  says? 

WILLIAM  [pulling  his  forelock].  A  most 
notable  gentleman. 

ROBIN.  Then  why  not  forth  again,  this  time 
upon  the  right  road? 

HANNAH.  Dost  hear,  William  and  John? 
Try  the  other  way,  which  is  the  right  way.  A 
most  sensible  thought. 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  conception. 

HANNAH  [furiously  stamping  at  them]. 
Tlien  stand  not  there  like  immovable  goats,  but 

34 


THE  RING 


. 

get  you  gone  !  Forth  I  Make  haste  1  [Wil 
liam  and  John  take  to  their  heels.  Mistress 
Ch  'ttle  has  been  puffing  and  blowing  all  this  time, 
sitting  on  the  settle.  Hannah  drops  into  a  chair 
for  a  moment,  apparently  exhausted,  but  jumps 
up  again  and  starts  to  the  door  after  the  men.] 
Dost  thou  think  [to  Robin]  that  they  will  4»e¥ita=. 
"fcj^ftake  the  right  road  this  time? 

ROBIN  [soberly'].  I  should  think  there  were 
grave  doubt. 

HANNAH.  Then  must  I  be  after  them  again. 
A  -stupid  man  is  more  inlracLvtiTh!  ilia,  a  balking 
dettkey.  [She  goes  hurriedly  out.] 

DAME  CHETTLE.  Now  does  slie  know  the 
right  road? 

ROBIN.     Tho  right  /goad-seen  is  nut  yet.  ^wholhr 

+ 


unavoidable.- 

DAME  CHETTLE.     And  u'L.  she  take  it? 

ROBIN.  Jwdftflg-—  ffem  ~inf  crenTe  from  The 
poet)  I  j>huuhi  llimkyprobably  not. 

DAME  CHETTLE.  Then  I  ought  to  be  after 
and  tell  her  so.  [She  waddles  out  and  Robin  and 
Kate,  left  alone,  gaze  at  each  other.] 

ROBIN.  Wilt  "thou  after  them,  Kate,  to  show 
them  the  right  road? 

KATHERINE.  Nay,  and  if  they  take  not  thef*-  '(*£• 
right  road  this  time,  still  will  the  right  road  be  t^AA- 
left. 

ROBIN.  A  cheerful  thought.  Hope-pesehe* 
en  thv  window  -"MB1.  Now,  let  us  sit  down  and 
reason  out  what  'twere  best  to  do.  [Robin 
takes  Kate  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  to  the  settle, 
where  they  sit  down,  Robin  leaning  over  with 
elbows  on  his  knees,  thinking.'] 

35 
^  C  < 


SHORT  PLAYS 


|          m    „,,    -    nf*-  - 

feaam  BRUTE: — Rnbm,  thou  uu  u  wise  little 
knaX*e,  beyond  thy  years.  X^ 

RoBlN.  I  thank  thee,  and  yet  years  have  a 
way  of  "Creeping  up,  to  anything  even  srich  wis 
dom  as  I  possess.  Soon  will  I  be  too  j&ld  to  play 
the  woman  and  then  — 

KATHERINE;  Why,  then  wilt  thou  play  the 
man.  Rosalind  .will  have  married  Orlando  and 
the  twain  be  one. 

ROBIN.  Dost  thou  think  so?  Then,  if  am 
bition  doth  not  o'erleap  itself  I,  the  boy  who  plays 
Ophelia,  will  become  the  man  to  play  Hamlet. 

KATHERINE.  Now,  by  my  troth,  thou  art  a 
brave  little  cock.  I  delight  to  hear  thee  crow  — 
my  little  Cock  Robin.  Ah,  me,  I  had  almost  for 
got  there  were- such  a  sad  thing  in  the  world  as 
a  ring  —  alas,  that  it  must  be  so  generally  ex 
pressed  and  not  more  particularly ,  placed  upon 
my  finger.  1  do  not  believe  'tis  stolen  and  yet 
I  have 'searched  the  house  most  carefully  for  it. 
Hej^en  forfend  that  Richard  come  untiix  it  be 
^und.  k^**> 

ROBIN*     If  he  does,  .leave  him  to  me. 

[A  noise  is  heard.  '  It  comes  nearer,  a  gruff 
protesting,     and     Dame     Dodsley's     high- 

'     pitched  tones  are  audible  above  the  hub-bub.] 

HANNAH  [without].  Nay,  we  will  search 
thee.  Come  Jik>ftg,~  thou  thievish  knave.  Thou 
hast  it  on  thy  person.  [They  break  into  the 
room,  Mistress  Dodsley  first,  backing  in  with  her 
face  toward  the  men,  William  and  John,  who  are 
pulling  along  a  Gypsy.  Dame  Chettle  last.] 
Here  is  the  thief.  I  spied  him  from  afar,  and 
he  made  no  attempt  to  escape,  knowing  his  guilt. 

36 


THE  RING 


[Dame  Chettle,  •panting  laboriously,  drops  into 
a  chair,  the  two  men  clutch  the  Gypsy,  who  scowls 
and  looks  sullen.]  Now,  sir,  produce  the  ring. 

GYPSY.     I  have  it  not. 

HANNAH  [raising  her  hands].  Now  what  a 
liar  thou  art! 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  liar. 

HANNAH.     Produce  the  ring,  I  say. 

GYPSY.     I  have  it  not. 

HANNAH.  Thou  false  wretch,  to  deny  having 
the  ring  when  thou  wert  caught  in  the  very  act  of 
taking  it. 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  wretch. 

HANNAH.  Produce  the  ring,  I  say.  Make 
no  more  delay. 

GYPSY.  I  can  not  produce  that  which  I  have 
not. 

HANNAH.     Thou  bold-faced  knave. 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  knave. 

HANNAH.  If  thou  wilt  not  produce  the  ring, 
forthwith,  I  will  have  thee  searched.  [The 
Gypsy  makes  no  answer  to  this  but  looks  even 
more  angry  and  sullen.  William  and  John  clutch 
his  arms  the  tighter.]  What,  dost  thou  still  re 
fuse?  Then,  William  and  John,  take  his  wallet 
from  him.  [There  is  a  long  scuffle  in  which 
John  at  last  gains  the  wallet  and  is  about  to  hand 
it  to  Dame  Dodsley.]  Give  the  wallet  to  Mas 
ter  Woodcock.  Let  him  examine  'he  contents  of 
this  soiled  receptacle.  [She  shudders  from  the 
thing  to  her  so  filthy.  Robin  takes  it,  turning  out 
odd  bits  of  coin,  string,  glass,  ribbon,  a  charm, 
etc.] 

ROBIN.     The  ring  is  not  in  this. 
37 


SHORT  PLAYS 


KATHERINE.  I  do  not  think  he  has  the  ring. 
[Kindly.] 

HANNAH.  Assuredly  he  has  the  ring!  Tis 
elsewhere  secreted  about  his  person,  and  he  must 
be  thoroughly  searched.  Search  him,  William 
and  John.  [They  begin  to  search  the  Gypsy, 
who  resists.] 

GYPSY.  Let  be  —  I  know  naught  of  your 
ring. 

HANNAH.  Search  him  diligently.  [They 
clutch  him,  the  Gypsy  resists  violently,  and  after 
a  long  and  desperate  struggle,  he  finally  twists 
himself  free  from  the  men,  makes  a  break  for 
the  door,  and  runs  away,  leaving  them  In  awk 
ward  attitudes  of  great  surprise  and  dismay.] 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Oh,  my!     Oh,  my! 

HANNAH  [almost  shrieking].  Now  out  upon 
you  for  careless  fools !  Yo»~aF€~a£,, sip w  as  a 
sTRHivand  let  him  slip  through  your  -fingers  as  if 
you  had'Tjq  more  of  them  than  hath  a  snail. 

JOHN.  'Twpuld  take  as  many  fingers,  Mis 
tress,  as  hath  a  spider,  to  hold  such  an  eel. 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  eel. 

HANNAH.  5  And  even  now  you  let  him  be  run 
ning  as  fast  as  his  heels  can  carry  "IjkQ.  Catch 
him,  I  say  —  after  him  and  catch  him! 

t  KATHERINE.     Nay,    mother,    do    nor  trouBte 
kirn-more.     I  do  not  think  he  has  the  ring. 

JOHN.  We  passed  a  tinker.  Methought  he 
had  the  ring. 

HANNAH.     Why  thought  you  that? 

JOHN.  'Twas  when  we  first  went  out  to  catch 
the  Gypsy,  and  the  tinker  looked  cunningly  at 
the  house. 

38 


THE  RING 


ROBIN.  Tinkers  were  thieves  and  tricksters 
ever. 

WILLIAM.     Oh,  most  notable  tricksters. 

HANNAH.  P  faith  I  almost  think  he  has  the 
ring. 

ROBIN.     'Tis  like  enough. 

HANNAH.  Let  us  forth  and  set  upon  his 
track.  Perhaps  we  will  meet  again  with  that  ly 
ing,  thieving  Egyptian.  Forward,  William  and 
John,  there  is  no  time  to  lose. 

[She  goes  out,  followed  by  the  two  men, 
Dame   Chettle  waddles  in   the  rear  of  the 
procession.     Robin  and  Kate  look  at  each 
other    and    then    both    burst-  out    laughing. 
Kate  throws  herself  into  the  settle.] 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  Robin,  I  think  I  am  not 
merry;  I  think  I  am  mad,  rather. 

ROBIN  [with  assumed  dismay].  The  one  is 
the  most-. diabolical-  counterfeit  of  the  other. 
Now  -rtttth-'the  fiend  laid  hold  -on  tfoee. 

KATHERINE.  -T-mly,  I  almost  believe  it.  -I 
am  so  tormented.  I  dread  Richard's  coming. 

ROBIN.     If  he  comes,  be  rid  of  him. 

KATHERINE.     Be  rid  of  Richard? 

ROBIN.     Send  him  away. 

KATHERINE  [haughtily].  That  I  would  not 
do  if  I  so  desired  and  I  do  not  so  desire. 

ROBIN.  Oh,  very  well,  then,  take  him  for  a 
walk  and  leave  me  here  to  settle  with  your 
mother. 

KATHERINE.  I  fear  you  do  not  know  my 
mother. 

[A   noise   of  footsteps   is   heard   outside  and 

39 


*^j£ SHORT  PLAYS 

Richard  Powell  enters.     Seeing  Robin,   he 
sings  some  words  from  "  Twelfth  Night." 

is  a  tall,  handsome,  dark-eyed,  pale  and 
frowning  young  man.  He  is  dressed  some 
what  foppishly  in  a  suit  of  purple  with  deep 
yellow  trimming,  and  possesses  evidently  an 
overabundance  of  egotism  with  much  im- 
^A  portance  of  manner.] 

RICHARD  [singing].  "  Ho,  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 
tell  me  where  my  lady  is  ?"  [To  Kate.]  Greet 
ing  to  thee,  my  lady  and  my  love.  [He  kisses 
her  hand,  she  giving  him  her  right  and  keeping 
the  left  safely  tucked  away  behind  her.] 

KATHERINE.  Dear  Richard  [putting  her  left 
arm  around  his  neck,  then  when  he  attempts  to 
take  this  hand  she  withdraws  it],  I  am  so  glad 
thou  hast  come,  for  I  have  not  tasted  the  air  to 
day  and  would  like  so  much  to  have  a  walk. 

RICHARD.  And  is  that  the  reason  you  are  glad 
to  see  me?  [Of ended] 

KATHERINE  [coyly].  Nay,  that  is  not  all  the 
reason. 

RICHARD  [smiling].  Suppose  I  will  not  take 
thee? 

KATHERINE  [winningly].  Then  must  I  en 
treat  thee. 

RICHARD  [with,  feigned  sternness].  Then 
would  I  be  very  obdurate  —  to  be  so  entreated. 
[Settles  himself  back  in  a  chair  and  folds  his 
arms]  Go  on,  entreat  me. 

KATHERINE.     The  day  is  fair,  my  lord. 
RICHARD.     Thou  art  my  day,  and  fair  to  me 
alway. 

40 


THE  RING 


CATHERINE.     The  air  is  fresh,  my  lord. 

RICHARD.  Not  fresher  than  thy  smile  which 
doth  ni«  here  beguile. 

KATHERINE.  But,  oh,  the  sky  above  the 
fields  is  blu'ej  my  lord. 

RICHARD.  The  sky  is  not  moffe  blue  than  is 
my  sweetheart  true. 

KATHERINE.  Here  dost  thou  hear  no  tune  of 
birds,  my  lord. 

RICHARD.  Here  do  I  hear  thy  words,  sweeter 
than  tune  of  birds. 

KATHERINE.  There  wouldst  thou  have  all 
these  and  me  beside. 

RICHARD.  And  sweet  must  these  things  be 
ta'en  through  the  love  of  thee. 

KAT4fE*JN-E.-    Then  wHt  thou-  come,  my  lord  ? 

RICHARD.  Forsooth  thou  dost  entreat,  then 
must  I  come,  my  sweet. 

KATHERINE.  Put  it  all  into  a  play,  Richard, 
for  thoju  wilt  some  day  come  to  comedy  when 
tha.t  tragedy  hath  made  thee  care  more  for  the 
little  merry  things  of  life.  Comfort  each  other 
whilst  that  I  am  gone  for  my  hat^ 

{She  kisses  him  lightly  on  the  brow  and  goes 
out.~\ 

RICHARD.     Robin,  my  lad,  is  she  not  rare? 

ROBIN.  So  rare  I  almost  think  thou  dost  not 
hold  her  high  enough. 

RICHARD.  Nay,  'twere  impossible  to  hold 
her  higher  than  I  do.  I  know  that  all  virtues 
reside  in  her.  As  beauty  hath  fashioned  her 
without  so  goodness  hath  appointed  her  within. 
Fair  and  lovely  as  the  rose  is  she,  and  as  the 

41 


SHORT  PLAYS 


fragrance  of  the  rose,  her  soul  exhales  in  thought 
arict"Tfeedr  ""The-  spirit  of  gentleness,-  rnethinks, 
did  hover  over  all  the  Dearth:  when  she  was  born. 
Oh,  'tis  a  thing  beyond  the  dreams  of  happiness 
to  have  a  being  so  perfect  love  me. 

ROBIN  [looking  at  him  intently'].  Thou  must 
take  great  joy  in  her  sure  faith. 

RICHARD.  That  is  the  best  of  all  —  I  can  be 
lieve  in  her.  I  can  rely  upon  her  truth  with 
never  a  question.  I  lie  .upon  her  faith  as -on  a 
bed  of  violets.  jr 

"StJoBiN.  A  poet's  answer.  Yet  a  bed  of  vio 
lets  '"might  damp  thy  coat  or  spirits  if  too  long 
indulge*!  in. 

RICHARD  [smiling'}.  Thou  art  too  young  to 
be  converited  to  a  lover's  faitlj/  When  thou  art 
older  then  tKpu  wilt  not  make  a  mock  of  senti 
ment.  Wert  thou  not  at/the  play  this  after 
noon? 

ROBIN.     No,  not.  to-cjfity.     Thou  wast  there? 

RICHARD.  Yes,  an^  sat  upon  the  stage  not 
to  show  a  brave  new^xloublet  nor  a  handsome 
cloak  as  I  so  often  have  seen  others  do,  and  not 
to  flout  the  actors/or  make  jests  and  air  a  very 
vain  and  foolish/wit,  but  rather  to  listen  with  a 
mind  intent  upon  the  marvelous  words.  I  for 
get  the  din  and  rudeness  of  the  pit,  the  lordings' 
idle  show,  the  roughness  of  the  stage,  and  only 
hear  the  play,  which  as  it  doth  proceed",^  4oth  ever 
grow  and  glow  like  to  a  May  sunrise  when  fields 
and  hills  and  streams  are  fresh  and  fair  and  full 
^•1  joy. 

\_Katherine  returns  with  her  hat  on,   her  left 
glove  on,  the  right  one  In  her  hand.] 
42 


THE  RING 


ROBIN.     May  I  wait  to  see  your  father? 

KATHERINE.  He  is  late  and  may  have  gone 
to  the  Mermaid  with  the  other  actors  for  supper. 
I  like  not  to  leave  thee  so  alone. 

ROBIN.  If  he  does  not  come  soon,  then  I  will 
go  to  find  him. 

KATHERINE.  Then  good-by.  Find  a  book 
to  read  and  make  thyself  at  home. 

RICHARD.     Good-by,  dear  lad. 

ROBIN.  Farewell,  friends.  [They  go  out 
and  he  walks  about  the  room  humming  to  him 
self,  and  finally  picks  up  a  book  and  begins  to 
read,  stretching  himself  out  on  the  settle.  He  \. 
suddenly  stops  reading,  and  sits  up  thinking.  He 
reaches  over  to  the  table  and  feels  all  over  it, 
displacing  things.  Finally  he  gets  up  and  hunts 
about,  going  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and 
peering  about  on  the  floor.  A  noise  is.  Jiear-d. 
fL£.~list£tt*.,.  Jt^b-dcames  perceptible  as  several 
voices,  the  high  tones  vf  Hannah  distmgitifhabh 
ab&ve  the  others.  Rob*in~is  intent,- anx'wu&f  yet 
smiling.  The  yells  of  a  man  are  heard:  "  Let 
me  be!  Of  with  you,  thou  dost  hurt  me!"  and 
so  on,  and  then  the  stern  voice  of  Richard  Powell. 
Robin  takes  , up  his  book,  regimes  his  seat,  and 
pr-etrfiij>  to  he  reail'iny  abstractedly  when  they 
all  burst  into  the  room,  Hannah  first,  then  the 

43 


SHORT  PLAYS 


two  men  dragging  the  Tinker,  then  Richard 
looking  like  a  thunder-cloud,  then  Katherine,  and 
at  last  Dame  C kettle,  red-faced  and  panting.] 

HANNAH  [very  excitedly].  Here  we  have 
the  thief  at  last.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  thought 
we  should  never  catch  him;  he  did  run  so. 

DAME  CHETTLE.  Oh,  my!  Oh,  my!  [She 
drops  down  into  a  chair,  panting  and  fanning  her 
self.] 

HANNAH.  He  hath  heels  like  a  coursing 
hound  — 

WILLIAM.     A  most  notable  hound. 

[The  Tinker  raises  his  ragged  heel  and  looks 
at  it  with  a  grimace.] 

HANNAH.  And  when  we  did  at  last  have  him 
in  our  hands  —  John  caught  him  first  by  the  tail 
of  his  coat,  which  gave  way  like  the  shell  from 
an  egg  [the  Tinker  looks  around  and  surveys 
the  remnant  of  the  tail  of  his  coat  with  another 
grimace],  and  It  seemed  well ...nigh  impossible  to 
grasp- "any 'corner  of  him,  but  when  at  last  we 
did  have  him  'twas  as  if  we  had  him  not  —  he 
screwed  and  twisted  like  a  hyena  — 

WIL^JAM.     A  most  notable  hyena. 

[The  Junker  suddenly  assumes  a  horribly  fierce 
look  fyd  jumps  at  them  as  if  he  would  bite 
them,  at^which  they  all  spring  back  and 
shriek  anthe  servants  almost  lose  their 


ROBIN.     Art  thou  sure  that  this  is  the  thief? 

HANNAH.     'Tis    morally    certain.     He    doth 
not  deny  it. 

TINKER.     Nay,  then,   I  am  a  thief,  but  not 
that  thief. 

44 


THE  RING 


HANNAH.  What  dost  thou  mean  with  iky 
hypcrbults  ? 

TINKER.  I  mean  that  your  thief  being  else 
where,  I  am  not  he. 

^  But  you  have  the  ring. 
,  Nay, -not  that  ring.     That  ring  be- 
e  where*  I  have  4t  not. 

HANNAH.  I  will  not  listen  to  thy  idle  talk. 
The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  thou  must  give  up 
the  ring. 

TINKER.  The  long  of  it  is  th&^fig,  being 
further  off.  And  the  short  of. ttisl,  being  short 
of  the  ring. 

ROBIN.  Why,  excellent  Tinker,  thou  dost 
tinker  witjj  Words  as  with  pewter  pans. 

HANNAH.     I  say  to  thee,  produce  the  ring. 

.TINKER.     Now    how    may    I    product    that 
whkh  I  did  not  abduct? 

HANNAH.  If  thou  dost  not  give  up  the  ring 
of  thy  own  accord,  I  will  have  thee  searched. 

TINKER.  Now  I  am  a  truthful  Tinker  and 
though  I  be  a  thief,  an  honest  thief,  and  my  hon- 
esty  importunes  me  to  acknowledge  that  I  did 
not  take  the  ring. 

HANNAH.  Search  him,  William  and  John. 
[They  begin  the  search.'] 

TINKER.  Now  doth  the  Bible  say  truly  that 
from  a  man  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken  even  that 
which  he  hath. 

ROBIN.     Nay,  perchance  he  told  the  truth. 

HANNAH.     He  is  a  lying,  thieving  Tinker. 

ROBIN.  But  here  is  the  one  sunny  spot  in  his 
darkjife.  He  has  not  the  ring  because  I  have 
the  ring. 

45 


SHORT  PLAYS 


KATHERINE  [starting].     No,  no! 

RICHARD  [who  has  preserved  a  gloomy  silence 
with  arms  folded,  at  the  back  of  the  room,  now 
strides  forward  to  Robin.]  Thou  hast  the  ring? 

ROBIN.     Gramercy,  yes,  who  else? 

RICHARD.     How  had  you  it? 

ROBIN.  Nay,  Richard,  do  not  glare  so.  I 
took  it  in  a  jest  to  tease  thy  sweetheart,  who  is 
so  foolish  fond  of  thee,  and  she,  fearing  thy  an 
ger  against  me,  would  not  avouch  my  guilt. 
Sore^-thou  «tarest-as-.»t  the  seven  deatHy-stfw. 

RICHARD.  Thou  little  piece  of  impudence, 
dost  thou  think  that  thou  canst  batten  on  my 
love  for  thee  and  take  advantage  of  it  and  of  thy 
youth  ? 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  Richard,  believe  him  not. 
He  did  not  take  the  ring.  What  happened  to  it 
I  can  not  truly  tell,  but  I  have  lost  the  ring  and 
he  has  not  the  ring. 

ROBIN.     She  would  but  excuse  my  fault. 

RICHARD.     You  have  the  ring? 

ROBIN.     I  have  the  ring. 

RICHARD.  Then  give  it  up  to  me  before  I 
strike  you  down. 

ROBIN.  Thy  words  are  full  of  menace  and  of 
hate. 

RICHARD  [striding  up  and  down  after  Robin, 
who  keeps  just  out  of  his  way].  Provoke  me  not 
further  but  give  up  the  ring. 

ROBIN.  Keep  hands  off  me  and  cool  thine  an 
ger  down. 

RICHARD.  Thou  little  cockscomb,  thou  fool 
hardy  wight !  To  dream  that  thou  couldst  come 
between  me  and  my  love.  Thou  vain  and  fool- 

46 


THE  RING 


ish  boy  to  dare  affront  me  and  meddle  with  af 
fairs  thou  art  witless  of!  l*ba» -contemptuous 
sm&LL£,oaLajHl  worse  tha»-. fool,  -for  deception 
doth-sk-apon  thy  back.  [He  works  himself  into 
a  fury  and  strides  after  Robin,  who  continually 
evades  him.~\ 

KATHERINE.     Oh,  Richard,  I  beseech  thee! 

RICHARD.     Speak  not  to  me,  you  did  deceive 
me,  too. 

KATHERINE.     Nay,  dear! 

RICHARD.     I  say  you  did. 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  Richard,  can  you  speak  so 
to  me? 

RICHARD.  How  have  you  used  me?  --HOTT 
have  you  abused  the  love- i^are -you? 

KATHERINE.     Never,  Richard,  never. 

RICHARD.  Ayev  but.  you~h^je.,--~~Nw€t.  -de 
ceive  me  more.  ''"Do  not  entreat  me.  I-  will  fore- 
gO~you.  I  must  avoid  one  who  is  so  slight  of 
heart.  One  who  could  connive  in  affection  with 
—  [to  Robin]  —  Oh,  thou  young  rogue,  t'O  m"a"fce 
a-rntrck-ef  thmgs-totrsarred-far  for  thy~s"hattow~ 
imrter9tafi4t«gkl  How  mine  anger  waxes  at  sight 
of  thy  impertinent  rosy  cheek! 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  sir,  I  implore  thee!  He 
did  not  take  the  ring.  Go  on,  search  the  Tinker. 

HANNAH.     To  be  sure,  search  the  Tinker. 

RICHARD.     Thou   dost  need  a   lesson  It53^"a- 
pumshiHeRt  and  I'll  give  it  thee,  thou  little  med 
dlesome  villain,  thou !      [He  strikes  at  Robin  and 
grabs  him  by  the  collar.'] 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  do  not  hurt  him!  [Han 
nah  shrieks  and  Dame  Chettle  screams.~\ 

DAME  CHETTLE.     Oh,  my!     Oh,  my! 
47 


SHORT  PLAYS 


\The  Tinker  yells  as  one  of  the  men  finches 
him,  they  having  gone  on  with  their  work  of 
searching  him.      The  door  opens  in  all  this 
tumult  and  Peter  Dodsley  enters.] 
PETER.     Good  folk,  good  folkl     What  devil 
pursueth  you  ?  Y<~-£c/'-wx 

\_They  all  start  and  stand  stock-still.     Richard 
drops  Robin.     f*v  {€<?'•£>•€  ye  ranges  r&und""the 
t>9i^>^m4M^^^n  -Mistress  -Chettle.,] 
PETER"?  -Why  ?     Mistress  Chettle,  thou  art  as 
breathless   as   m&,;ajr   before   a   summer   storm. 
But  it  would  seem  tn^^thers  were  not  without 
wind  to  their  whistles,  if  I  might  judge  from  the 
'heacd  *a&  Lapproached-  the  door. 


KATHERINE.     Father,  my  ring  is  gone. 

HANNAH.  First  it  fell  in  the  dish  of  stewed 
prunes,  and  then  it  was  dropped  in  the  trencher, 
and  then  it  was  dropped  on  the  floor,  and  then  an 
Egyptian  took  it  — 

WILLIAM.     Notably  black. 

HANNAH.  And  then  this  Tinker  here,  whom 
we  were  searching  even  now. 

KATHERINE.  And  then  frtTlfe  Robin,  to  shield 
me,  said  he  stole  it  in  jest.  Richard  is  angry. 
Dear  father,  speak  to  him!  Pacify  him! 

PETER.     And  it  was  taken  in  jest? 

RICHARD.     A  very  sorry  jest. 

PETER.  Poor  Richard,  thou  wert  fashioned 
for  tragedy.  Yet,  ^mcthLnks.^  thou  wilt  .never  un- 
deiFstand  -tragedy,  until  thou  hast  produced  a  sense 
of  comedy.  Heaven  defend  thee,  Kate,  from 
such  a  cross-grained  husband  as  Dick  is  like  to 
make.  Poor  little  Robin  !  Come,  make  friends 
with  him,  Dick.  What!  'Twas  only  a  jest? 

48 


THE  RING 


A  jocund  j'Oof?  Shall  there  be  no  more  laughter 
because  one,  Master  Richard  Powell,  is  melan 
choly  ?  Come,  Dick,  come,  my  sweet  Dick,  thou 
wilt  forgive  a  jest? 

RICHARD.     Some  jests  are  not  to  be  forgiven. 

PETER.  Then  am  I  in  sad  plight,  for  I  for 
sooth,  have  played  a  jest  even  like  to  this. 

KATHERINE.     But  Robin  did  not  take  the  ring. 

PETER.  Why,  then  have  you  all  been  ringed 
round  by  a  trickster  and  followed  a  circle  of  mis 
takes.  Now  who  must  have  the  ring?  My 
good  wife  says  the  Tinker  has  the  ring,  and  the 
Tinker's  answer  rings  true  though  he  says  he 
has  not  the  ring.  Kate  declares  that  Robin 
lacks  the  ring  and  Robin  vows  he  has  the  ring. 
Richard  doth  solemnly  declare  he  wants  the  ring 
and  I  as  solemnly  protest  I  have  the  ring. 
[Holding  it  up  to  the  view  of  them  all.]  We  did 
need  a  ring  for  a  property  in  the  merry  comedy 
of  "  Twelfth  Night "  this  afternoon,  and  I,  to 
tease  my  girl,  my  Kate,  took  hers  without  her 
knowledge  or  her  commendation.  Tfe*-****^ — 
why,  'tis  a  rare  little -ring  —  tlttl  commend' kactf. 
Forsooth,  Richard,  canst  thou  now  forgive  a  jest 
or  will  you  refuse  me  for  a  father-in-law? 

RICHARD.  'I  faith,  sir,  if  I  had  but  known 
who  did  it! 

PETER.  'I  faith,  dear  Dick,  then  learn  to 
take  a  jest  where  it  doth  find  thee,  and  give  pos 
session  where  it  doth  belong.  [He  gives  Rich 
ard  the  ring  and  carries  his  hand  to  that  of 
Kate.}  Those  who  had  the  ring  this  afternoon 
in  the  play  were  fain  to  say  they  wanted  it  not, 
and  those  who  had  it  not  were  quite  sure  they 

49 


SHORT  PLAYS 


wanted  it.  So  wags  the  world.  And  I,  lacking 
my  supper,  am  quite  sure  I  want  it.  So,  dear 
dame,  let  me  ask  these  friends  to  sup  with  us 
here  and  now.  And  —  [his  eye  being  attracted 
to  the  Tinker]  let  all  poor  wights  assembled  here 
have  benefit  of  the  mischance  that  brought  them 
hither. 

[CURTAIN.] 


50 


THE  ROSE. 

SIR  RICHARD,  a  young  nobleman* 
THE  LADY  SILVIA. 
EUSTACE,  a  page. 

[SCENE:  An  apartment  —  a  tower  room, 
perhaps  —  at  the  end  of  a  long  windy  hall  in 
a  castle  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  It  has  two 
entrances,  the  larger  is  at  the  back  of  the  stage 
heavily  curtained,  the  smaller  at  the  extreme 
left  is  like  a  secret  door  and  is  also  curtained. 
The  furniture  is  weighty  dark  oak  deeply 
carved,  there  are  heavy  hangings,  and  tapes 
try  and  armor  deck  the  walls.  On  the  right  is 
a  fire-place  with  logs  burning  low  and  in  front 
of  it,  facing  half  round,  is  a  carved  high-backed 
bench.  Sir  Richard,  followed  by  Eustace,  en 
ters  through  the  curtains  at  the  secret  door  on 
the  left.  Sir  Richard  wears  doublet  or  coat 
of  blue  velvet  with  lavender  trimmings,  laven 
der  hose,  and  a  cape  of  deep  orange.  The 
youth,  Eustace,  is  in  satin  coat  of  rose  with 
slashed  sleeves  showing  light  green  beneath, 
and  hose  of  pale  green.  He  carries  a  guitar.] 

EUSTACE.     You  will  not  tell  me,  then,  what 

troubles  you  ? 
RICHARD.     You're  old,  dear  boy,  beyond  your 

years  and  yet, 
Believe  me,  there  are  feelings  that  the  soul 

51 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Is  ripe  for  only  with  the  ripening  time. 

It  is  a  pretty  and  a  kindly  law 

That  life  tests  not  the  tender  flesh  of  babes 

In  the  same  scales  of  rude  experience 

She  uses  'gainst  the  muscles  of  strong  men. 

EUSTACE.     But  I,  my  lord,  am  not  a  babe. 

RICHARD   [turning  and  regarding  him  with  a 
smile\.  Not  quite! 

EUSTACE.     Perhaps  I've  lived  more  in  my  mea 
gre  years 
Than  you  suppose. 

RICHARD.  I  would  not  underrate  you, 

But  if  a  seed  falls  not  in  fallow  soil 
It  will  not  grow,  or  sprouts  up  dwarfed  and  poor. 
The  soil  of  your  young  soul  is  not  yet  ripe 
To  nourish  seeds  that  may  take  root  in  mine 
And  bear  the  fruit  of  rich  experience. 

EUSTACE.     I  can  not  follow  up  your  figures  fair 
But  yet  conceding  all  you  say  is  true, 
That  it  would  be  impossible  for  me 
To  have  the  same  experience  as  you 
May  I  not  feel  your  trouble?     Or  your  ruth? 
And  help  to  bear  it  through  my  sympathy? 

RICHARD.     Real  sympathy  comes  not  from  in 
experience. 

EUSTACE.     With    all    your    weight    of   years 

\smtHng],  there  you  mistake. 
Real  sympathy  comes  from  a  tender  heart. 

RICHARD.     The  Queen's  heart's  tender,  but  — 

EUSTACE.  The  Queen's  the  Queen. 

RICHARD.     Ah,  yes,  I  know!     I  know!     And 

I  will  do 

Her  bidding  loyally.     Kind  Heaven  forfend 
That  I  should  learn  allegiance  from  a  page  I 

52 


THE  ROSE 


EUSTACE.      Then    is    it    true?      The    rumor 

spread  last  night, 

And  over  which  the  court's  so  much  amazed? 
RICHARD.     The  court  had  better  wisely  hold 

its  tongue. 
The  rumor  that  you  speak  of  I've  not  heard. 

—  They    dare    to    cackle    when    one's    back    is 

turned!  — 

But  I  do  leave  to-morrow  with  the  dawn, 
It  is  the  Queen's  will,  therefore  is  it  right. 
I  go  to  join  a  band  of  gentlemen 

—  And  rogues  —  that  sails  to  seek  the  colonies, 
There  to  maintain  a  province  for  the  Queen, 
Which  it  is  hoped  will  grow  to  something  great, 
Another  kingdom  overseas  for  her, 

In  that  new  land  of  wondrous  fair  report. 

[He  walks  over  to  the  fireplace  and  stands  gaz 
ing  at  the  dying  embers  with  his  back  to 
Eustace.  ] 

EUSTACE  [following  him]. 
Do  you  remain  forever  in  that  place? 

RICHARD.     What  time  I  shall  return  is  not  yet 

named. 
There  will  be  talk  concerning  it  and  me  [turns 

round  to  Eustace], 

Other  fair  names  perchance  will  be  dragged  in. 
[He  strides  up  to  Eustace  and  grasps  him  al 
most  roughly  by  the  shoulder.'] 
Boy,  gossip  is  a  vile  worm  crawling  thick, 
Whenever  you  do  find  it,  trample  it  1 

EUSTACE.     My    lord,    when    I    hear    aught 

against  your  name, 
Trust  me,  I  will  defend  it  properly. 

[They  go  out  as  Eustace  speaks.     Silvia  steals 

53 


in  through  the  curtained  entrance  on  the  left. 
She  has  evidently  heard  voices  and  is  listen 
ing.  She  crosses  to  the  center  of  the  room, 
stops  and  conies  back,  stands  about  as  if 
thinking,  finally  glides  to  the  bench  in  front 
of  the  fire  and  sits  down  looking  at  the  em 
bers,  leaning  over  towards  the  fire  with  her 
hands  clasped  in  front  of  her.  She  sits  a 
few  moments  in  utter  silence,  making  a  tab 
leau,  then  Eustace  returns  through  the  cen 
ter  door.] 

SILVIA  [looking  up  and  smiling]. 
Ah,  Eustace,  I  was  hoping  you  would  come. 
EUSTACE    [dropping    his    head    and    looking 

down]. 

You  draw  me  always  to  you  when  you  will. 
[She  regards  him  smiling  then,  after  a  pause, 

says:] 
SILVIA.     I  feel  so  strangely  lone  to-night  and 

sad. 
What  night  is  it? 

[Eustace  has  had  his  guitar  in  his  hand.     He 
now  leans  it  against  the  wall  at  the  back  of 
the  room  and  comes  over  towards  her.] 
EUSTACE,  It  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve. 

SILVIA.     Ah,  then,  poor  saint,  her  soul  must 

walk  abroad, 

And  that  is  why  the  wild  winds  wail  so  shrill, 
And  why  the  clouds  go  by  like  trailing  shrouds, 
And  why  the  elm  trees  sway  as  in  despair, 
And  why  I  feel  foreboding  and  unrest. 
On  such  a  night  I  think  of  country  roads 
And  deep  beech  woods  with  ghosts  behind  each 
tree, 

54 


THE  ROSE 


And  eerie  hooting  owls  and  far  away 
The  fearsome  howling  of  a  dismal  dog, 
And  on  a  lonesome  bough  a  robin  cold, 
Despite  his  orange  feathers,  in  the  wind. 
On  such  a  night  I'm  fain  to  wander  forth 
And  join  them  in  their  wild  performances. 

EUSTACE.     You  like  a  night  like  this? 

SILVIA.  No,  but  I  feel 

Its  magic  grip  my  heart. 

EUSTACE  [he  comes  closer].     It  is  because 
You  are  a  part  of  all  the  witchery 
That  sways  the  trees  and  beasts  and  hearts  of 
men. 

SILVIA.     But  hearts  of  boys  come  not  within  my 
sway. 

EUSTACE.     They  are  already  yours,  contented 

with 
The  honey-dew  of  pleasure  from  your  smile. 

SILVIA.     Ah,  Eustace,  what  a  courtier  you  will 

make, 

And  what  a  wooer  when  you  come  to  woo ! 
Already  I  grow  envious  of  her, 
And  grudge  the  pretty  sonnets  and  the  songs 
You'll  make  for  her  and  sing  on  summer  nights. 
On  summer  nights ! 

[She  looks  into  the  dying  fire  and  shivers.] 
Ah,  listen  to  the  wind! 

EUSTACE.     Can  one  be  jealous  of  one's  own 
fair  self? 

SILVIA  [turning  to  him  and  smiling  sweetly]. 
Dear  boy,  you'll  love  again  and  yet  again 
A  hundred  times  before  you  come  to  wed. 
You  are  my  friend  and  I  can  count  on  that, 
For  I  do  know  and  trust  your  true  young  heart. 

55 


SHORT  PLAYS 


EUSTACE.     Of  our  two  hearts  mine's  older  by  a 

day, 

Though  it  lived  not  till  yours  began  to  beat. 
SILVIA.     You  must  not  talk  so,  surely  not  to 
night, 

When  phantoms  ride  upon  the  wind  outside 
And  gossip  slips  and  slides  within  the  court. 
They  talk  and  talk  and  ever  still  they  talk 
And  tell  of  this  one  now  and  now  of  that. 
To-day  I  think  they  meddle  with  my  name  — 
Tell  me  what  you  have  heard. 

EUSTACE  [trying  to  evade  her  and  make  light  of 

it~\.  I've  not  heard  much. 

SILVIA.     But  I  would  know  that  much  —  I'm 

curious. 
EUSTACE.     Therefore  you  should  not  be   so 

gratified. 
SILVIA.     I'm  also  serious.     Eustace,  tell  me, 

please. 

'Tis  best  that  gossip  come,  if  come  it  must, 
Upon  a  friendly  not  a  spiteful  tongue. 

EUSTACE.     They  say  the  Queen  has  heard  and 

thinks  it  true 

Sir  Richard  loves  you  and  that  you  return 
His  deep  affection  yet  an  hundredfold. 

[She  scans  his  face  in   deep  earnestness  and 

amazement,  then  slowly  turns  her  eyes  away 

and  gazes  straight  In  front  of  her  In  deep 

honesty.     She  speaks  low  as  If  to  herself.] 

SILVIA.     He  does  not  look  at  me,  he  scarcely 

knows 
I  live  —  then  how  could  I  — 

EUSTACE.  They  say  the  Queen 

Herself  cares  for  my  lord  and  will  not  let 

56 


THE  ROSE 


Another  have  his  love,  so  she  has  planned 
To  send  him  out  of  England,  overseas. 

[Silvia  has  not  heard  this  before  and  takes  it 
in  slowly,  wonderingly,  abstractedly.  She 
looks  at  Eustace  and  finally  down  at  her  own 
hands  lying  quietly  in  her  lap.  Then  she 
speaks  low.~\ 
SILVIA.  And  I  the  small  unconscious  cause  of 

this? 
[After  another  pause.~\     Why  does  she  not  send 

me  away  from  court? 

No  one  would  miss  me  —  I  would  gladly  go. 
Jealous  of  me  —  she,  the  great  Queen,  of  me? 
To  send  him  overseas  for  doing  naught, 
Who's  needed  here. —  It  is  unjust,  unjust !     [A 

long  pause.'] 
EUSTACE.    Your  going  from  the  court  would  do 

no  good, 

My  lord  would  follow  you  —  if  that  he  cared. 
[Another  pause,  Eustace  watching  her.] 
EUSTACE.     'Tis  not  your  fault  nor  does  it  lie 

with  you 
To    mend    it.     Worry    not.     The    Queen's    the 

Queen. 

[He  is  silently  watching  in  the  next  pause  un 
til  finally  she  looks  up  and  speaks  in  a  dif 
ferent  tone.] 
You  are  so  good  to  wear  my  little  rose. 

SILVIA  [brightening].     'Tis  a  good  little  rose 

and  very  fair, 

The  virtue's  in  the  flower  and  not  in  me. 
Sing  me  the  song  again  you  sang  last  night. 

[Eustace  goes  and  gets  his  guitar,  tunes  it  and 
sings  the  song:] 

57 


SHORT  PLAYS 


EUSTACE  [singing'], 

Ah,  take  the  rose, 
Its  leaves  unclose 

A  thousand  tender  thoughts  of  thee, 
Thy  beauty  rare,  thy  gentle  grace, 
Thy  fair  simplicity. 

Ah,  take  the  rose, 
For  with  it  goes, 
My  love,  my  tender  love  of  thee, 
And  may  it  find  a  little  place 
Within  thy  memory. 

[Sir  Richard  returns  and  parts  the  curtains  at 
the  center  door.  Silvia  starts  to  her  feet 
and  stands  waiting  for  his  advance.  He 
has  stopped  at  seeing  Silvia  and  Eustace  to 
gether.  Eustace,  who  has  had  his  back  to 
the  door,  turns  and  drops  behind  Silvia  on 
the  other  side  from  the  other  man.  Rich 
ard  takes  a  stride  or  two  forward,  at  first 
he  looks  from  one  to  the  other  haughtily, 
then  his  gaze  remains  fixed  on  Silvia.] 
RICHARD.  I  fear  I  interrupt  a  pretty  scene 
Of  love-making  and  soulful  serenade. 

[Eustace    exclaims    and   steps    more   into    the 

background.] 
SILVIA   [becoming  more  dignified  and  with  a 

shade  of  anger]. 

Is  it  a  sin,  my  lord,  to  sing  a  song? 
I  thought  the  music  sweet  and  think  so  still 
Despite  the  disapproval  of  my  lord. 
[More  lightly.'}     Perhaps  some  weightier  matter 
brought  the  frown. 
58 


THE  ROSE 


We'll  deem  the  notes  of  music  innocent 
Until  pronounced  quite  guilty  by  the  court. 
You  are  the  judge,  my  lord,  be  merciful! 

RICHARD.    Tis  true  a  weightier  matter  brought 

the  frown. 
I  sought  you  everywhere  and  find  you  here  — 

[As  if  breaking  off  the  thread  of  his  thought.'} 
It  is  essential  that  I  speak  with  you 
Of  something  imminent  and  bearing  great 
Import  to  me.     Eustace,  by  your  leave. 

[For  the  first  time  since  his  entrance  he  shifts 
his  gaze  to  Eustace  and  his  look  is  one  of 
command.  He  makes  a  gesture  of  dismis 
sal.  Eustace  bows  low  and  with  dignity 
and  grace  goes  out  through  the  curtains  at 
the  center  door.  Silvia  looks  after  Eustace, 
then  silently  and  intently  regards  Richard, 
who  drops  his  eyes  to  the  floor  and  is  agi 
tated.  Then  he  raises  his  head  and  they 
gaze  at  each  other  a  few  moments  before  he 
speaks.] 
RICHARD.  You  made  it  plain  just  now  that 

what  I  like 
Or  disapprove  has  little  weight  with  you. 

SILVIA   [very  gently].     You  have  no  right  to 

draw  an  inference 
So    strangely    strained    and    twisted    from    my 

words. 
I  only  said  I  thought  the  music  sweet. 

RICHARD  [with  heat].     And  meant  you  like  the 

singer  passing  well. 
SILVIA  [very  low  and  gently].     I  do,  my  lord, 

but  it  is  quite  unjust 
For  you  to  misinterpret  what  I  say. 

59 


SHORT  PLAYS 


RICHARD.     Ah,  can  you  flout  me  with  a  page's 

love? 
I  came  upon  him  wooing  you  — 

SILVIA.  My  lord, 

You  were  unkind  to  Eustace  and  to  me, 
You  were  so  sharp  with  him  and  as  for  me, 
You  have  no  right  to  question  my  intent. 
We  were  small  playmates  back  in  childhood  days, 
And  now  our  friendship's  haply  here  renewed 
After  an  interval  of  separate  years. 

RICHARD.    I  knew  not  your  acquaintance  was  so 

old. 
The  love  you  bear  each  other  is  not  new? 

SILVIA.     I  almost  think  you  wilfully  mistake. 
He  brings  to  mind  the  little  girl  I  was, 
And  country  lanes  and  springtime's  deep  blue  sky 
And  robins  with  their  music  wistful-gay 
And  apple-orchards  pink  with  fairy  bloom 
And  little  lone  cold  brooks  so  zealous  in 
Their  little  busy,  pushing,  plashing  way. 

RICHARD.     But  he  did  sing  a  love-song  to  you 
now? 

SILVIA.     I  did  not  sing  it  back  again  to  him. 
Lovers  are  many,  ballads  and  sonnets  grow 
Like  small  green  poplar  leaves,  a  myriad. 

RICHARD.     And  drop  the  soonest  in  the  first 

strong  wind. 
'Tis  not  a  night  for  tender  leaves  of  spring. 

SILVIA.     Therefore  the  more  should  I  not  cher 
ish  them? 

On  such  a  night  as  this  when  the  fierce  wind 
Drives  in  the  cold  from  underneath  the  door, 
Forcing  a  rigor  up  into  the  soul, 

60 


THE  ROSE 


When   hearts    seem    frozen   like   the    dull   hard 

ground, 

And  portents  cry  and  clamor  to  be  heard, 
One  longs  for  sympathy  and  memory 
Of  summer  fields  and  days  when  life  was  glad 
And  warm  with  gentleness  and  simple  faith. 
[She  droops  into  the  corner  of  the  bench  to 
wards  him.     He  comes  closer  and  gazes  at 
her  sear  chin  gly.~\ 
RICHARD.     Is  life  here  at  the  court  unkind  to 

you? 

SILVIA.    Ah,  no,  the  court  has  many  ladies  good 
And  gracious  gentlemen, —  only  to-night 
I  feel  a  little  child  unfit  to  cope 
With  difficult  problems  life  must  bring  to  all. 
[His  voice  becomes  very  gentle  as  he  says:~\ 
RICHARD.      Have  you   encountered  problems 

then  so  soon? 
SILVIA.    Questions  of  choice  come  early,  do  not 

they  ? 
Questions  of  self-effacement  follow  soon. 

[He  looks  at  her  surprised.  She  waits  a  few 
moments,  hoping  he  will  speak.  He  does 
not  and  she  goes  on.~\ 

SILVIA.     A  problem  still  more  difficult  to  solve 
It  is  when  one  would  very  quickly  choose 
To  cancel  self  but  may  not  since  the  right 
Lies  with  my  masters,  only,  not  with  me. 

[He  sits  down  by  her  on  the  bench  but  still 

does  not  speak.] 
SILVIA.    You  sought  me  out  with  something  you 

would  say? 

RICHARD.    It  is  so  hard  to  say  —  hard  to  begin, 
61 


SHORT  PLAYS 


And  having  once  begun,  I  fear  I'll  tell 
Too  much.     My  heart  is  very,  very  full. 

SILVIA.    Perhaps  I  know  a  little.    [Looking  at 
him  timidly.} 

RICHARD.  Do  you  know 

That  I  am  sent  away? 

SILVIA.  Yes,  I  have  heard. 

RICHARD.    The  Queen  will  give  no  reason  —  I 

will  not 

Credit  the  silly  reason  others  give. 
My  plans  are  all  o'erturned,  my  dearest  hopes 
Are  fallen  like  an  infant's  house  of  blocks. 
I'm  torn  asunder  'twixt  my  loyalty 
And  duty  to  myself  and  to  my  love. 
Why  should  she  send  me,  give  no  cause  for  it? 

[He  rises  and  -paces  up  and  down  for  a  few 

moments.'} 

Ah,  Silvia,  I  walk  as  in  a  dream ! 
It  is  so  sudden,  so  unnatural. 
Only  to-night  she  told  me,  though  I  heard 
The  rumor  flying  through  the  court  this  morn. 

SILVIA.    'Tis  true,  then,  from  the  Queen's  own 
lips,  'tis  true? 

RICHARD.     She  sent  for  me,  I  had  an  audience 
A  few  hours  since. 

[He  walks  across  the  room,  she  watching  him 
silently.     After  a  pause  he  continues.} 

She  was  not  like  herself. 
She  seemed  secretive,  furtive,  strangely  cold. 
She  questioned  me  on  subjects  various, 
And  foreign  to  our  thought,  but  finally 
She  said  the  word,  she  said  that  I  must  go. 

SILVIA.     What  reason  did  she  give? 

RICHARD.  I  told  you,  none. 

62 


THE  ROSE 


SILVIA.     But  could  you  mildly  yield  to  her  un 
just? 
RICHARD.     Not  so,  I  mildly  yield  my  rights  to 

none. 

How  could  you  think  I  would?     But  you  forget 
She    is    the    Queen.     Ah,    Heaven,    she    is    die 

Queen ! 

I  have  said  all  I  could  —  argued  —  prayed  — 
My  fealty  binds  me  —  for  the  time  I  yield. 
The  expedition  sails  in  early  spring, 
Until  that  time  I'll  be  away  from  here. 

[He  stands  gazing  at  her  with  all  his  love  in 

his  eyes.~\ 

I  may  not  ever  see  your  face  again. 
I  go  to-morrow  with  the  early  dawn. 
[Silvia  starts  quickly  and  exclaims.'} 
SILVIA.    To-morrow  with  the  dawn?    Ah,  not 

so  soon! 
RICHARD.     I  have  come  here  to-night  to  say 

good-by, 
To  tell  you  that  I  love  you. 

SILVIA  [looking  up  at  him  entreatingly~\. 

Do  not  go ! 

RICHARD.     You  care  a  little,  then? 
SILVIA.  All  that  I  may. 

[She  rises  and  stands  leaning  against  the  back, 
of  the  bench.  He  starts  toward  her  with  an 
exclamation,  then  stops,  puts  the  back  of  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  a  moment,  then  passes 
it  over  on  one  side  of  his  brow.] 
RICHARD.  It  is  not  right  for  me  to  take  your 

love, 

Not  right  for  me  to  have  your  promises, 
But  only  right  for  me  to  give  you  mine. 

63 


SHORT  PLAYS 


I  go  for  her,  but  leave  my  heart  with  you, 
Not  with  the  Queen  —  my  love  is  all  for  you, 
My  thoughts  from  far  away  will  be  with  you, 
My  longing  to  return  will  be  for  you. 
Dear  Love,  I  will  come  back  again  to  you, 
My  wish,  my  will,  my  life  will  be  for  that. 
Ah,  let  me  look  at  you  one  moment  more 
And  let  my  sharpened  wit  now  etch  the  sight. 
Of  you  as  you  are  now  upon  my  brain: 
My  eyes  are  always  seeing  you  —  I  know 
Just  how  you  stand,  the  silent  gentleness 
Each  gesture  has.     My  fancy  adds  you  to 
Scenes  here  or  anywhere  —  the  firm  white  wrist, 
The  clear  and  honest  glory  of  your  eyes. 
This  special  vision  will  I  keep  to  yield 
Me  solace  at  the  end  of  weary  day 
When  night  has  come  and  I  may  dream  of  you. 
[After  a   moments   -pause  and   with   a   slight 

change  of  tone.} 

If  you  will  give  me  something  I  may  wear 
Of  yours  — 

SILVIA  [taking  a  step  or  two  toward  him  im 
pulsively], 

I  would  give  you  anything. 
{She  takes  of  a  cross  and  chain  and  is  about  to 
put  it  about  his  neck,  but  he  stops  her,  tak 
ing  it  out  of  her  hands  and  replacing  it  about 
her  own.~\ 
RICHARD.     No,  not  the  cross,  something  quite 

valueless 

Except  for  what  it  means  to  you  and  me, 
Something  more  delicate  that  I  may  keep 
Even  if  it  fades  —  you'll  let  me  take  the  rose  ? 
[She  gives  it  to  him,  he  bows  over  it,  kneel- 
64 


THE  ROSE 


ing  and  kissing  her  hand.  Then  he  rises, 
takes  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  re 
leases  her  and  swiftly,  without  ever  look 
ing  back,  he  goes  out  through  the  cur 
tains  at  the  back  of  the  room.  She  is  left 
desolate,  standing  looking  after  him.  From 
the  left  and  far  away  Eustace  is  heard  sing 
ing.  Silvia  goes  to  the  bench  and  drops 
into  it,  hiding  away  in  the  corner  as  far  as 
possible,  pale  and  chill,  holding  the  cross  to 
her  lips  as  she  gazes  at  the  embers  almost 
fallen  to  ashes.  Eustace  is  heard  singing.] 
EUSTACE. 

Ah,  take  the  rose, 
For  with  it  goes 

My  love,  my  tender  love  of  thee, 
And  may  it  find  a  little  place 
Within  thy  memory! 


LUCK? 
A  FARCE  COMEDY. 

CHARACTERS   AS   THEY  APPEAR. 

NORAH,  a  maid  at  the  Faughn's. 

EVELYN  VAUGHN,  engaged  to  Roger  Campbell. 

DR.  ROGER  CAMPBELL,  a  young  surgeon. 

Miss  WRIGHT. 

MRS.  FULSOM. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL. 

Miss  BAILEY. 

MRS.  YOUNG. 

MR.  MELLICENT,  a  young  clergyman. 

DR.  WILSON,  a  professor  of  psychology. 

FIRST  POLICEMAN. 

SECOND  POLICEMAN. 

PETER,  the  Campbell's  man. 

SCENES. 

ACT  I.  Library  at  the  Vaughn's.  The  29th 
of  October,  afternoon. 

ACT  II.  Home  of  Mrs.  Maxwell.  The  3Oth 
of  October,  afternoon. 

ACT  III.  Tea  room  of  the  Beechmont  Country 
Club.  The  3ist  of  October,  after 
noon. 

ACT   IV.     Library  at  the  Vaughn's.     The  3ist 

of  October,  evening. 

67 


SHORT  PLAYS 


[The  library  In  the  Vaughn  home.  The 
room  is  furnished  in  heavy  mahogany  and 
has  low  bookcases  around  the  walls  with  a 
few  fine  prints  hanging  above  them.  There 
is  a  big  table  a  little  to  one  side  of  the 
center  of  the  room,  covered  with  books  and 
magazines,  and  on  it,  too,  a  big  electric 
lamp.  A  chair  is  at  either  side  of  the  table. 
There  are  other  chairs,  a  couch,  a  heavy  teak- 
wood  tabouret  in  a  corner  of  the  front  part 
of  the  room.  On  a  bookcase  is  a  Japanese  jar 
having  on  it  the  three  wise  monkeys  of  Japan. 
It  is  overturned  and  its  contents  of  rose- 
petal  pot-pourri  scattered.  A  rosy-cheeked 
Irish  maid  enters  through  the  curtains  at  the 
door  on  the  left  side  of  the  room  towards  the 
back,  and  rushes  diagonally  across  to  the 
tabouret.  She  pants  wildly  and  is  carrying  a 
huge  jar  of  pink  Killarney  roses.  She  gets  the 
jar  safely  on  the  tabouret,  then  slips  on  the 
polished -floor  and  sprawls  awkwardly  at  full 
length.'] 

NORAH  [giving  a  shriek  and  slowly  getting 
herself  up].  Ach!  Holy  Mother  be  thanked 
'twas  me  an'  not  the  roses!  'Tis  the  fairies  be 
up  to  their  old  thricks,  trippin'  ye  an'  sich.  At 
Hallowe'en  they  do  be  playin'  mad  pranks  and 
givin'  iverybody  bad  luck.  [She  goes  through 
the  room  straightening  things,  picks  up  news 
papers  that  have  been  scattered  over  the  floor, 
arranges  the  pillows  on  the  couch,  and  so  on. 
She  goes  to  the  bookcase  and  begins  putting  back 
the  spilled  rose  leaves  and  as  she  does  so  a  young 

68 


LUCK? 

lady  carrying  a  little  black  kitten  comes  in  through 
the  curtains  at  the  same  entrance. ~\ 

EVELYN.  What  on  earth  were  you  doing, 
Norah  ? 

NORAH.  'Twas  the  jar  knocked  over,  miss. 
I  surmise  Timmy  must  have  did  it. 

EVELYN.  But  that  little  jar  turned  over  didn't 
make  the  awful  crash  I  heard  a  moment  ago. 

NORAH.  No,  miss,  the  crash  wasn't  the  jar, 
that  was  me  —  yet  sure  'twas  a  jar,  too.  [She 
looks  rueful  and  rubs  her  hip.']  But  I  think 
Timmy  must  have  did  this. 

EVELYN  [to  the  kitten'].  Did  you  do  this, 
you  little  de'il?  Maybe  the  fairies  were  up  to 
pranks,  Norah.  It  is  nearly  Hallowe'en,  you 
know,  and  they  seem  to  be  more  lively  at  this  time 
of  year  than  at  any  other.  Do  you  believe  in 
fairies,  Norah? 

NORAH.  There  is  some  as  don't,  miss,  but  as 
for  me  —  [shaking  her  head  and  crossing  herself 
as  one  should  say  "  I  know  too  much,  I  am  too 
wise  not  to  believe"']. 

EVELYN.  So  do  I,  Norah.  I  believe  in 
fairies,  though  perhaps  mine  are  not  just  exactly 
like  yours.  There  are  fairies  of  the  mind  as  well 
as  of  the  eyes,  you  know. 

NORAH  [looking  very  mystified  and  rolling  her 
eyes  from  one  corner  of  the  room  to  the  other 
as  if  expecting  to  see  something  untoward'].  No, 
miss,  I  didn't. 

EVELYN.  Well,  there  are.  And  when  you 
come  to  study  experimental  psychology  and  va 
rieties  of  hypnotic  experience  and  especially 
esoteric  Buddhism,  you'll  realize  it. 

69 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NORAH.  Saints  preserve  us,  miss!  It  seems 
to  me  as  though  the  little  old  Irish  fairies  could 
do  enough  harm  without  addin'  any  such  new 
fangled  ones  to  help  thim  in  their  little  diviltries. 

EVELYN.  They  aren't  new  —  only  stupid  peo 
ple  are  just  beginning  to  find  them  out.  [To  the 
kitten.'}  Timmy,  if  you're  going  to  be  destruc 
tive,  you'll  have  to  go.  Society  doesn't  harbor 
destructive  little  animals.  Norah,  didn't  you  say 
your  aunt  would  be  glad  to  have  him?  Well, 
you  can  take  him  home  to  her  whenever  you  have 
time. 

NORAH.  If  I  was  you,  miss,  I  wouldn't  give 
him  away.  'Tis  great  good  luck  to  have  a  black 
cat  follow  you  the  way  he  did,  an'  the  people 
that  owned  him  said  you  could  have  him,  so  he's 
a  free  gift  as  well,  and  it's  bad  luck  to  put  away 
a  gift. 

EVELYN.  I  like  him,  bless  his  little  heart! 
[She  strokes  and  pets  him.}  But  the  family 
doesn't  approve  of  him  even  in  his  state  of  inno 
cence,  and  if  he  should  break  a  vase  or  some 
thing  goodness  knows  what  would  happen.  No, 
he'll  have  to  go.  He'll  have  a  good  home  with 
your  aunt  and  be  just  as  happy  there  as  with  me, 
and  I  think  you'd  better  take  him  at  once  be 
fore  I  get  any  fonder  of  him.  {Holding  the  kit 
ten  up  In  her  hands  and  dangling  his  little  legs 
In  front  of  her.}  If  you  become  too  attached 
to  good  luck,  it  makes  you  soft  so  you  can't  stand 
bad  luck.  I  like  people  with  lots  of  pluck  who 
can  bear  bad  luck. 

NORAH.  Oh,  as  for  me,  I  wisht  nobody  would 
never  have  bad  luck  at  all,  at  all,  miss. 

70 


LUCK? 

[Evelyn  goes  out  through  the  same  door,  car 
rying  the  kitten.  Norah  has  stopped  re 
spectfully  while  her  mistress  talked  to  her; 
she  now  finishes  putting  the  rose  leaves  back 
in  the  jar,  takes  the  corner  of  her  apron  to 
dust  it  and  places  it  back  where  it  stood,  and 
then  she  goes  out  the  same  door.  She  has 
not  more  than  disappeared  when  the  door 
bell  is  heard  to  ring.  Norah  appears  again 
at  the  same  door  and  passes  through  the 
room  to  answer  the  bell.  In  a  second  a 
young  man  enters,  followed  by  the  maid. 
He  looks  very  gay  and  happy,  has  his  hat 
under  his  arm  and  is  beginning  to  take  of 
his  gloves.] 

CAMPBELL.     She's  at  home,  is  she,  Norah? 
NORAH    [archly].     I   would  be   thinkin'   per 
haps  she  knew  you  might  be  comin',  sir. 

CAMPBELL  [putting  his  hat  on  one  end  of  the 
bookcase].  No,  she  didn't,  for  I  didn't  tele 
phone  her. 

NORAH.     Maybe  she  knew,  anyhow,  sir. 
CAMPBELL.     No,  she  couldn't  possibly.     For 
I  didn't  know  myself  till  two  minutes  before  I 
started. 

NORAH.  Perhaps  she  surmised  you  was  corn- 
in'  before  the  idea  entered  your  own  head,  your 
self,  sir. 

CAMPBELL.  Oh,  fiddlesticks!  {He  has  been 
walking  about  in  a  sort  of  happy  nervousness, 
pulling  off  the  fingers  of  his  gloves.]  That 
sounds  like  the  nonsense  so-called  educated  peo 
ple  talk  nowadays.  Whoever  put  such  an  idiotic 
notion  into  your  pretty  head?  [He  stands  in 

71 


SHORT  PLAYS 


front  of  her,  smiling  and  pulls  a  half-dollar  out 
of  his  pocket,  holding  both  hands  behind  him.'} 
Which  hand  will  you  take?  [Then,  extending 
them,  the  right  hand  holding  the  money  and  the 
left  hand  holding  his  gloves.]  But  pshaw!  No 
body  could  ever  give  you  the  mitten.  [He  gives 
her  the  money,  waving  the  gloves  in  the  air  to. 
illustrate  his  joke.] 

NORAH  [with  delightful  coyness].  Sure, 
you're  as  handsome  a  gintleman  as  you're  giner- 
ous.  [She  has  a  rich  Irish  brogue.] 

CAMPBELL.  Norah,  such  kisses  as  yours 
ought  never  to  have  been  wasted  on  a  stone,  but 
evidently  you  have  kissed  the  Blarney  Stone. 
My  thanks  to  it.  Now,  run  and  tell  her  I'm 
here. 

[Norah  goes  out  through  the  curtains  at  the 
left  back  door.  The  young  man  puts  his 
gloves  together  and  places  them  on  the 
tabouret  under  the  roses  while  he  leans 
down  to  smell  them  and  smile.  He  has  evi 
dently  sent  them.  He  walks  about  with  his 
hands  behind  him  and  then  thrusts  them  into 
his  pockets,  whistling  softly.  He  goes  to 
the  low  bookcase  and  picks  up  the  Japanese 
jar.  Finally  when  he  is  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room  Evelyn  enters  through  the  same 
left  door.  She  is  dressed  in  blue,  is  flushed 
and  joyous.  He  turns  and  strides  forward 
and  they  meet  considerably  on  her  side  of 
the  center  of  the  room.  He  catches  her 
hands,  swings  them  to  and  fro,  beaming, 
then  throws  them  around  his  shoulders, 
takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her.  He  re- 
72 


LUCK? 

leases  her,  holding  her  from  him  and  regard 
ing  her  with  delight.] 

CAMPBELL.  Isn't  it  a  bully  day?  It's  so  fine 
I  had  to  come.  It's  a  funny  thing  that  when 
ever  the  day  is  particularly  fine  I  want  to  see  you. 

EVELYN.  I  thought  you  said  whenever  it  was 
rainy  you  wanted  to  see  me. 

CAMPBELL.  I  do.  It's  a  peculiar  effect  the 
weather  has  on  me  —  whatever  it  is,  it  makes  me 
want  to  see  you!  [They  both  laugh.] 

EVELYN.  You  crazy  boy,  I  knew  you  were 
coming.  [She  sits  down  at  the  left  side  of  the 
table.] 

CAMPBELL.  Oh,  that's  not  hard.  You'd  be 
pretty  sure  to  guess  right  about  that  nine  times 
out  of  ten,  wouldn't  you?  [He  laughs.]  Don't 
draw  telepathic  inferences  from  the  conduct  of 
a  man  who  is  in  love  with  you.  [He  sits  down 
on  a  corner  of  the  table  nearest  her.]  How  have 
you  managed  to  put  in  the  day  without  me? 

EVELYN  [in  playful  satire].  I've  lived  on  the 
hope  of  seeing  you. 

CAMPBELL  {regarding  her  critically].  You 
don't  look  as  if  you  had  pined  enough. 

EVELYN.  I'm  the  kind  that  doesn't  show  trou 
ble.  And  beside,  the  great  happiness  of  your 
presence  has  driven  away  now  all  the  traces  of 
sorrow. 

CAMPBELL  [growing  serious].  Evelyn,  you 
talk  as  if  you  were  making  fun  of  our  love. 

EVELYN.     Why,  dea  — 

CAMPBELL  [quickly].     Say  it! 

EVELYN.     Roger! 

CAMPBELL.     No,  the  other ! 

73 


SHORT  PLAYS 


EVELYN.  Dearest!  [With  a  little  gulp  and 
smiling  side-glance  at  him.]  You  began  it. 
[He  immediately  slides  over  and  sits  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair.~\  Oh,  please  don't!  Some  one 
may  come  in  any  minute. 

CAMPBELL.     I  don't  care  if  they  do. 

EVELYN.  I  do.  You  don't  know  how  they 
tease  me  about  you,  anyway. 

CAMPBELL.  I  like  them  to  tease  me.  I  like 
them  to  talk  about  you  all  the  time. 

EVELYN.     Do  get  up! 

CAMPBELL  [rising  impatiently}.  Well,  then, 
let's  go  for  a  walk.  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  I 
haven't  much  time  to  spare.  It  will  do  you 
good  after  sitting  here  fretting  for  me  all  these 
live-long  hours.  [He  gives  her  a  funny,  quizzi 
cal  look  and  grins.~\  Honestly,  Evelyn,  it  is  a 
glorious  day.  You  never  saw  such  a  blue  sky  — 
it's  more  bewitching  than  ever  in  spring.  I  came 
along  under  some  golden  and  flaming  trees  and 
they  seemed  like  autumn's  votive  offering  to  the 
spirit  of  fire.  Lord,  but  they  were  glorious! 

EVELYN  [smiling  appreciation].  I'd  love  to 
go,  only  I  have  a  little  thing  I  want  to  give  you 
first. 

CAMPBELL  [with  delight  and  deep  emotion]. 
A  present!  Bless  your  heart! 

[She  runs  out  of  the  room  and  is  gone  only  a 
few  moments.  He  stands  about  smiling. 
He  is  very  evidently  in  the  seventh  heaven 
where  dwell  young  men  in  the  first  days  of 
their  engagement.  She  returns  and  stands 
with  her  hands  behind  her.  They  both 

74 


LUCK? 

laugh,  gaze  at  each  other  and  are  ecstatically 
happy.} 

EVELYN.  Something  for  you.  Now,  shut 
your  eyes  and  see  what  the  queen  will  send  you. 
[Campbell  obeys.  She  takes  his  left  hand  and 
slips  on  the  little  finger  a  very  large  silver  ring 
with  a  Swastika  cross  in  light  blue  enamel  on 
the  top  of  it.  He  opens  his  eyes,  holds  up  his 
hand  and  gazes  abstractedly  at  the  ring,  then  at 
her,  in  a  thoroughly  non-plussed  way.  She 
smiles  at  him  but  he  does  not  smile  back.  He 
looks  at  the  ring.  Finally  he  speaks.} 

CAMPBELL.  Evelyn,  you  don't  really  expect 
me  to  wear  that?  [Holding  up  his  hand  and 
wriggling  his  little  finger.} 

EVELYN.  Why,  surely,  why  else  would  I  give 
it  to  you?  [Her  smile  has  died  away  and  she 
seems  a  little  chilled.} 

CAMPBELL  [still  holding  up  his  hand  in  an 
awkward  fashion  and  speaking  with  a  tone  and 
manner  slightly  patronizing}.  Any  sort  of  ring 
on  a  man  is  bad  enough,  but  a  silver  ring  set  with 
blue  enamel  is  the  inappropriate  allowed  to 
bawl  from  a  housetop. 

EVELYN  [disappointed,  but  trying  for  an 
understanding}.  Oh,  I  agree  with  you  about 
rings  in  general  but  this  is  different. 

CAMPBELL.     It's  worse. 

EVELYN.  It  is  unique  and  symbolical.  It 
isn't  like  wearing  a  diamond  ring.  I  wouldn't 
ask  you  to  go  about  adorned  like  a  drummer. 

CAMPBELL.  No,  but  I'd  be  moderately  incon 
spicuous  then,  almost  as  if  I  wore  a  hat.  Peo 
ple  have  grown  tolerant  of  misapplied  diamonds. 

75 


SHORT  PLAYS 


But  the  Swastika  swarms  like  an  invasion  of  Goths 
still  untamed.  You  want  me  to  join  the  horde 
of  belt-buckles  and  hat-pins. 

EVELYN.     You  contradict  yourself. 
CAMPBELL.     I'm  too  amazed  to  be  logical.     I 
can't  see  how  you  would  expect  me  to  wear  a 
thing  like  this.     It's  as  prevalent  as  peanuts. 

EVELYN.  A  thing  that  has  intrinsic  beauty  is 
not  hurt  by  popularity. 

CAMPBELL.  Oh,  intrinsic  beauty  is  all  right. 
But  you'll  have  to  admit  that  this  thing  has  the 
extraordinary  combination  of  the  qualities  of 
oddity  and  popularity. 

[Evelyn  does  not  answer  but  goes  over  to  the 
couch  and  sits  down  with  a  sigh  as  if  to 
wait  patiently  till  his  argumentative  mood 
has  passed.  He  marches  up  and  down  the 
room,  looking  at  the  ring  every  now  and 
then,  holding  up  for  inspection  and  wriggling 
his  little  finger.'} 

CAMPBELL.  Why  did  you  choose  a  thing  so 
strange?  Why  is  the  extraordinary  always  an 
excuse  to  you  for  breaking  conventions  and  sane 
principles?  Why  has  the  caviare  so  peculiar  a 
fascination  for  a  fastidious  young  woman  like 
you? 

EVELYN  [growing  a  little  dignified  and  icy~\. 
I  was  not  aware  it  had.  Nobody  ever  told  me 
before  that  I  broke  conventions  and  sane  prin 
ciples. 

CAMPBELL.  Nobody  was  ever  so  honest  be 
fore  with  you.  I  can't  understand  how  a  girl 
of  such  good  family,  so  well  brought  up,  can  be 
so  unconventional  and  care  so  much  for  the  queer. 

76 


LUCK? 

I  suppose  you  picked  this  up  just  because  it  was 
queer. 

EVELYN.  Perhaps  my  family  have  been  too 
proper  and  that's  why  I'm  not.  But  there's  noth 
ing  queer  in  this. 

CAMPBELL.  There  isn't,  eh?  Me  wearing  a 
blue  enamel  ring! 

EVELYN.  A  man  ought  to  be  independent 
enough  to  wear  anything.  And,  beside,  I  don't 
think  it's  very  kind  in  you.  to  think  I  would 
choose  something  for  you  because  it  was  queer. 
It  was  the  symbolism  of  it  that  attracted  me. 

CAMPBELL.  There  you  go  again!  [Stopping 
short  and  gesturing  with  irritation.']  Why  can't 
you  leave  symbolism  to  priests  and  painters?  It 
is  extremely  absurd  and  what  is  more  and  worse 
it's  unsanitary. 

EVELYN.  You  can  wash  this  ring  in  carbolic 
acid  every  day,  if  you  want  to. 

CAMPBELL  [very  much  exasperated].  Why 
not  just  leave  it  in  a  bottle  of  alcohol  and  only 
pretend  to  be  wearing  it  —  that  would  be  the 
superlative  example  of  your  symbolism. 

EVELYN.     Or  of  your  cynicism. 

CAMPBELL.  But  it  is  the  principle  of  the 
thing.  Why  do  you  — 

EVELYN.  Roger,  we  have  gone  all  over  this 
several  times  before. 

CAMPBELL.  Yes,  I  know  we  have.  But  here 
it  is  all  up  in  the  air  again.  You  are  supposed 
to  be  intelligent,  you  are  intelligent,  and  yet  you 
behave  sometimes  as  if  you  believed  in  the  most 
flagrant  and  idiotic  superstitions  that  even  Norah 
would  laugh  at. 

77 


SHORT  PLAYS 


EVELYN  [unmoved].     Would  she? 

ROGER  [hotly].  Certainly.  Well,  then,  why 
don't  you  deny  it?  Why  don't  you  say  some 
thing? 

EVELYN.     I  wonder. 

CAMPBELL.  I  don't  understand  it.  I  don't 
understand  how  you  can  combine  the  two  quali 
ties  —  how  you  can  hate  conventionalities  as  you 
do  and  yet  worship  all  sorts  of  puerile  and  idiotic 
symbolism. 

EVELYN.  Perhaps  nobody  is  consistent. 
You  weren't  a  moment  ago.  [She  sits  staring  at 
the  floor.'] 

CAMPBELL  [standing  still  and  looking  at  her~\. 
And  even  now  you  are  not  retreating  from  your 
position  in  the  least. 

EVELYN  [opening  her  eyes  wide  and  looking  at 
him  calmly].  Why  should  I? 

CAMPBELL  [with  a  trifle  of  embarrassment]. 
Well,  one  might  expect  you  to  try  to  see  things 
as  I  do. 

EVELYN.     I  think  I  do  generally. 

CAMPBELL  [hotly].  I  don't  think  you  do  at 
all.  I  don't  think  you  try  to. 

EVELYN  [slowly].  I  am  wondering.  I  am 
trying  to  think  why  once  in  a  while  you  should 
take  these  unaccountable  fits  of  obstinacy  and 
belligerence  —  why  you  should  become  so  diffi 
cult — 

CAMPBELL  [quickly].  To  manage,  I  sup 
pose.  So  you  try  to  manage  me,  do  you?  Well, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  try  to  excuse  it  in  you,  but 
really  I  can  not  understand  why  you  do  not  en 
deavor  to  see  things  sensibly  and  to  overcome 

78 


LUCK? 

your  taste  for  humbug.  It  is  the  principle  of 
the  thing.  \He  sits  down  on  the  left  side  of  the 
table.} 

EVELYN.  That  is  exactly  what  I  was  think 
ing  of.  Of  course  the  ring  is  nothing  —  it  is  of 
silver,  of  no  value,  but  it  is  pretty,  artistic, 
unique,  and  I  was  attracted  to  it  for  that.  Then 
the  Swastika  cross  on  it  means  good  luck.  But 
it  was  something  more  —  the  silver  and  the  blue 
enamel  meant  the  blue  sky  and  the  grey  clouds, 
the  sky  we  have  always  looked  to  and  that  was 
a  sign  between  us  when  we  were  separated  from 
each  other.  So  the  ring  was  doubly  symbolic 
with  a  peculiar  meaning  to  you  and  me  that 
nothing  else  could  have. 

CAMPBELL  \he  has  listened  to  her  speech  but 
then  catches  sight  of  the  ring  again,  shakes  his 
head,  rises  and  speaks  rapidly].  Can't  you  see 
how  ridiculous  it  is  for  me  to  wear  a  thing  like 
this?  Imagine  me  demonstrating  anatomy  to  a 
class  of  medical  students  in  the  dissecting  room. 
Can't  you  see  the  picture?  I  with  my  knife 
in  one  hand  [gesturing  with  his  right  hand], 
and  this  piece  of  superstition  and  folly  [holding 
up  the  left  hand  with  the  ring  on  it]  on  the  other? 
Can't  you  see  how  ridiculous  it  is? 

EVELYN.  No,  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  ridiculous 
at  all!  To  me  it  is  merely  beautiful. 

CAMPBELL.  It  is  ridiculous.  It  is  absurd, 
silly,  puerile.  And  it  is  all  that  in  you  that 
makes  you  want  to  do  such  things,  and  want  to 
make  me  do  them.  Pshaw !  You  ought  to 
know  better,  Evelyn.  A  girl  of  your  sense! 
You  ought  to  have  outgrown  such  folly.  You 

79 


SHORT  PLAYS 


are  forgetting  your  position.  You  are  forget 
ting  that  you  are  grown  up  and  engaged  to  be 
married.  You  are  forgetting  my  position.  You 
are  permitting  yourself  to  be  silly  and  childish 
and  worse  —  you  are  actually  indulging  and  en 
couraging  yourself  in  it.  [He  strides  about,  ex 
asperated,  angry,  and  hot.  She  sits  still  watch 
ing  him  from  her  seat  without  turning  her  head. 
At  last  she  says  very  quietly. ] 

EVELYN.     Will  you  wear  the  ring? 

CAMPBELL  [surprised  into  austere  bluntness~\. 
No,  certainly  not. 

EVELYN.  Then  —  then  you  might  as  well 
give  it  back  and  all  that  goes  with  it. 

CAMPBELL  [in  a  tone  of  surprise  and  alarm}. 
Surely  you  don't  mean  that? 

EVELYN.  I  think  I  do.  You  said  it  was  a 
matter  of  principle. 

CAMPBELL.  It  is.  You  are  asking  me  not 
only  to  seem  but  to  feel  absurd  for  a  silly  whim 
of  yours. 

EVELYN  [rising].  And  you  are  refusing  to  do 
the  first  little  thing  you  are  asked  to  do  for  my 
sake. 

CAMPBELL.     You  are  asking  too  much. 

EVELYN.     You  are  refusing  too  much. 

CAMPBELL.  Am  I  to  understand  that  you 
really  mean  what  you  are  saying? 

EVELYN.  You  have  given  me  the  impression 
that  you  meant  what  you  were  saying. 

CAMPBELL.     But  this  can't  be  final. 

EVELYN.     You  are  making  it  so. 

CAMPBELL.     No,  by  Jove,  I'm  not  —  you  are. 

EVELYN.  You  don't  need  to  raise  your  voice 
80 


LUCK? 

so.  I  think  you  said  you  would  not  wear  the 
ring? 

CAMPBELL.     Of  course. 

EVELYN.  Then  there  is  no  more  need  for 
further  talk  about  it. 

[Campbell  stands  a  moment  in  uncertainty, 
then  pulls  the  ring  of  his  finger  with  some 
difficulty.] 

CAMPBELL.     Do  you  really  mean  it? 

EVELYN.     I  do. 

[He  goes  to  the  bookcase  and  gets  his  hat, 
turns  and  faces  her.'] 

CAMPBELL  [with  perturbation].     Good-by. 

EVELYN.     Good-by. 

[Campbell  walks  out  of  the  door  at  the  right 
—  he  has  forgotten  his  gloves.  After  he  is 
of  the  stage  she  goes  across  to  the  roses  and 
stands  looking  at  them.  Campbell  returns, 
standing  in  the  doorway  at  the  right.] 

CAMPBELL.  You  will  maybe  think  this  over 
and  if  for  any  reason  whatever  you  may  want 
me  — 

EVELYN  [not  turning  round].  I  shall  not 
want  you. 

CAMPBELL.     Oh,  very  well,  then.     Good-by. 

EVELYN.     Good-by. 

[He  stands  looking  at  her  a  moment  reluc 
tantly  and  dubiously.  Then  he  goes  out  at 
right.  After  she  is  sure  he  has  gone,  she 
goes  to  the  table  and  picks  up  the  ring. 
She  holds  it  up,  regarding  it  with  a  vast 
malevolence,  pressing  her  lips  close  together. 
Finally  she  takes  it  to  the  Japanese  jar  and 
drops  it  in.  After  that  she  slowly  goes  to 
81 


SHORT  PLAYS 


the  tabouret  where  the  roses  stand,  throws 
herself  on  the  floor  under  the  roses  and  in 
a  huddled-up  heap,  a  rose  pulled  down  to 
her  face,  she  cries  in  desolation.     A  noise 
of  footsteps  is  heard  at  the  left.     Evelyn 
calls  out  in  a  tear-choked  voice.] 
EVELYN.     Oh,    Norah,    I    have   changed   my 
mind  about  Timmy.     I  am  not  going  to  give  him 
away. 

NORAH.     Oh,  but  I  just  come  back  from  tak- 
in'  him  home,  miss.     He's  gone. 

[The  curtain  goes  down  with  Evelyn   bowed 
below  the  roses,  weeping. ,] 


ACT  II. 

[SCENE:  A  room  in  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Marshall,  who  is  giving  a  tea.  It  is  a  pretty 
room,  with  many  jars  of  flowers  about  and  the 
ladies  in  their  reception  gowns  make  the  scene 
gay.  There  is  a  table  with  a  punch-bowl,  cups, 
and  so  on.~\ 

Miss  WRIGHT  [coming  in].  Nell,  I  want  you 
to  meet  my  friend,  Miss  Carmichael  —  Mrs.  Ful- 
som. 

MRS.  FULSOM  [fulsomely].  Are  you  the 
Miss  Carmichael  of  Chicago? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Well,  I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  or  not.  I  am  from  Chicago. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Oh,  then,  you  are.  I  hear 
you  are  perfectly  divinely,  absolutely  unscrupu 
lous  in  the  clever  things  you  say. 

82 


LUCK? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Chicago  is  a  breezy 
place,  but  I  hope  I'm  not  such  a  wind-bag. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Oh,  what  is  more  exhilarating 
than  a  sharp  tongue! 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  A  sharp  conscience,  per 
haps.  But  a  conscience  is  a  spiritual  appendix 
nowadays. 

MRS.  FULSOM.     I  love  clever  talk. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  One  only  talks  when 
there  is  nothing  doing.  When  people  are  really 
acting  there  is  no  room  for  conversation. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Then  you  will  talk  here. 
Things  are  awfully  dull. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  I  rather  fancy  things  are 
happening  here.  Then  one  doesn't  talk  much. 

Miss  BAILEY.  Have  you  heard  that  Evelyn's 
engagement  to  Roger  Campbell  is  broken? 

MRS.  FULSOM  [with  great  excitement].  Yes! 
They  were  coming  to  my  house  last  night  for 
some  bridge  and  after  dinner  she  sent  a  note  to 
say  that  she  had  a  headache,  and  he  had  his  of 
fice  girl  telephone  that  he  was  called  away  on  a 
case.  So  of  course,  I  knew!  I  had  to  ask  some 
other  people  and  naturally  was  compelled  to  ex 
plain  the  situation. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Situations  that  aren't 
self-explanatory  are  worse  than  situations  that  ex 
plain  themselves. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Perhaps  that  is  the  way  it 
leaked  out.  I  would  be  so  sorry  to  have  it  come 
through  me,  but  I  suppose  it  had  to  come  through 
somebody.  I  must  regard  myself  as  the  unwill 
ing  agent. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  wonder  what  was  the  mat- 
83 


SHORT  PLAYS 


ter?  But  they  never  seemed  suited  to  each 
other,  to  me.  They  are  both  so  hot-headed. 

MRS.  FULSOM.     Evelyn  doesn't  seem  so. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  But  she  is.  People  who  are 
alike  oughtn't  to  marry. 

Miss  BAILEY.  But  if  they  are  very  different, 
what  will  their  children  be  ? 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  that  isn't 
what  produces  dual  personality? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Oh,  dear,  omnipresent 
eugenics!  Must  it  even  invade  an  afternoon 
tea? 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that. 
But  it  takes  a  woman  who  is  genial  and  jolly  and 
serene  to  get  on  with  a  man  who  is  quick-tem 
pered. 

Miss  BAILEY.     One  like  you,  my  dear? 

MRS.  FULSOM  [after  an  uncomfortable  mo 
ment'}.  I  believe  the  scientists  have  decided  that 
the  little  god  Love  is  no  proper  eugenist. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.     He  is  the  greatest! 

Miss  BAILEY.  I  heard  Roger  had  dreadful 
luck  in  his  golf  match  to-day.  He  played  his 
semi-finals  at  noon  on  account  of  some  patient  or 
other,  and  he  was  almost  beaten. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Why,  he  has  been  in  dandy 
form  and  has  been  playing  a  ripping  game. 

Miss  BAILEY.  I  heard  he  lost  three  of  his  pa 
tients  last  night.  Maybe  that  unnerved  him. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  I  should  think  it  might. 
What  a  crush  Sallie  Marshall  always  manages  to 
get  at  her  teas! 

[Enter  Mrs.  Young,  an  almost  elderly  lady 
84 


LUCK? 

with  grey  curls,  and  a  thin,  pale  young  rector  in 
her  tow.~\ 

MRS.  YOUNG.     What  a  delightful  oasis  — 

Miss  WRIGHT.     In  the  desert  of  Sarah ! 

MRS.  YOUNG  [tapping  Miss  Wright  on  the 
cheek  with  her  fan}.  Oh,  you  naughty  punstress 
—  or  would  you  say  punstrette  ?  [She  smiles 
around  the  group  with  a  graceful  pride  in  her 
own  humility.  Dr.  Wilson  enters  from  the 
right.'} 

DR.  WILSON.  Good  afternoon,  ladies.  I 
saw  Mrs.  Young  headed  for  somewhere  that  I 
knew  would  be  delightful,  a  cosy  nook,  a  shady 
dell,  an  overflowing  spring  of  frappe,  perhaps 
something  cool  and  delicious  with  nymphs  and 
goddesses,  so  I  followed.  I  am  rewarded  for 
my  intelligence. 

Miss  WRIGHT.     You  are  not  warm  to-day? 

DR.  WILSON.  There  is  such  a  throng  in  the 
drawing-room.  Sometimes  I  almost  think  that 
people  hurry  in  haste  to  repine  in  pleasure. 

MRS.  YOUNG.     Oh,  you  witty  man  1 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  into 
the  house.  Coming  over  in  the  automobile  it 
was  so  cold  I  couldn't  talk  to  Betsy  [taking 
Miss  Carmichael's  arm}.  Whenever  I  opened 
my  mouth  the  wind  blew  holes  through  my 
teeth. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  I  was  resigned.  I'd 
rather  have  gaps  in  the  conversation  than  in  your 
teeth. 

[Evelyn   enters  from   the  right.      They  greet 

'  her.} 

85 


SHORT  PLAYS 


MRS.  YOUNG.  Mr.  Mellicent  and  I  [indicat 
ing  the  pale  young  clergyman,  who  bows  pro 
foundly]  have  been  discussing  dreams  and  I  want 
to  refer  the  matter  to  you,  doctor.  Do  you  be 
lieve  in  dreams? 

DR.  WILSON  [beaming  with  a  quizzical  look']. 
Why  —  er  —  yes,  I  think  they  are  delightful. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Yes,  I  know,  one  enjoys  a 
pleasant  dream,  but  do  you  consider  them  signifi 
cant? 

DR.  WILSON.  Oh,  very.  Of  lobster  a  la 
Newburgh  or  salads  or  pate  de  foi  gras  or  even 
an  innocent  Puritan  New  England  pie. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Still,  you  do  not  wholly  appre 
hend  me.  I  mean  are  they  significant  psychically? 
Or  would  you  say  psychologically?  [She  smiles 
around  at  them  with  her  air  of  humility  asking 
for  assistance.]  I  dream  a  great  deal  and  I  find 
my  dreams  so  fascinating.  I  make  it  a  rule  to 
tell  them  always  at  the  breakfast  table,  particu 
larly  if  I  have  guests.  I  think  it  promotes  con 
versation  at  that  period  of  the  day  when  persons 
do  not  usually  feel  stimulated  to  it. 

DR.  WILSON  [profoundly].  Dreams  have  al 
ways  been  and  still  are  the  subject  of  deep  inter 
est  to  all  those  who  are  investigating  psychic 
phenomena. 

MRS.  YOUNG  [enthusiastically].  Oh,  how 
clever  of  you  to  say  so !  I  knew  you  couldn't  dis 
believe  in  premonitions. 

DR.  WILSON  [surprised].  I  don't  know  that 
I  meant  that  altogether  —  that  I  —  meant  to  go 
so  far.  And  the  term  premonition  is  not  so 

86 


LUCK? 

much  used  nowadays.  Intuition  is  the  latest 
thing. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Well,  people  can  call  it  pre 
monition  or  whatever  they  choose,  but  I  believe 
in  it. 

EVELYN.  You  have  great  hardihood  to  say 
so. 

DR.  WILSON.  Oh,  my  dear  young  lady,  not 
to-day.  Twenty  years  ago,  perhaps,  physical  sci 
ence  called  everything  that  wasn't  a  germ  super 
stition,  but  in  the  reaction  now  everybody  talks 
psychic  phenomena  —  except  perhaps  the  few 
who  really  have  experiences  that  are  significant. 
[He  looks  at  her  pointedly.'} 

EVELYN.  No  one  ought  to  hold  back  any 
thing  that  might  prove  valuable  to  humanity.  It 
is  quite  proper  for  the  individual  to  allow  his 
feelings  to  be  vivisected  for  the  sake  of  the  race. 
Let's  begin.  Now  why  do  you  believe  in  pre 
monitions?  [To  Miss  Wrig\it.~\ 

MRS.  FULSOM  [who  has  been  devoting  herself 
to  Miss  Carmichael}.  I  want  your  friend  to 
meet  a  friend  of  mine  [to  Miss  Wright\,  may  I 
borrow  her  a  few  minutes?  I'll  bring  her  back 
safely. 

Miss  WRIGHT  [smiling  and  nodding  to  Mrs. 
Fulsom].  Why,  Evelyn,  the  way  I  feel  about 
things.  Now,  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  Roger 
Campbell  is  going  to  be  beaten  at  golf  in  the 
finals  to-morrow.  [She  relapses  into  a  flushing 
state  of  embarrassment,  conscious  that  she  has 
put  her  foot  into  it,  and  the  entire  group  is  awk 
wardly  silent  except  Mrs.  Youna,  who  does  not 

87 


SHORT  PLAYS 


realize  the  situation  and  looks  about  smiling  at 
the  others.] 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Thought-transference  is  an 
other  very  interesting  phenomena  —  or  would 
you  say  phenomenon?  [She  again  looks  about 
with  the  same  smiling  graceful  pride  in  her  own 
humility.'] 

Miss  BAILEY.  Oh,  that  is  a  subject  that  I  am 
immensely  interested  in.  How  far,  doctor,  do 
you  think  one  mind  can  influence  another? 

DR.  WILSON.  Do  you  mean  hypnotically,  by 
suggestion? 

Miss  BAILEY.  Well,  no,  I  mean  unconsciously 
or  subconsciously,  I  suppose  you  would  call  it. 

DR.  WILSON.  Perhaps  I  wouldn't  call  it  that, 
but  could  you  illustrate  ? 

Miss  BAILEY.  Suppose  one  person  is  very 
much  in  the  thoughts  of  another  person  and  sup 
pose  he  has  a  belief  in  something  —  a  sort  of 
superstition,  which  he  hardly  acknowledges  or 
is  even  aware  of,  himself.  Do  you  think  that 
belief  would  have  a  compelling  influence  over  the 
other  person? 

DR.  WILSON.  For  example,  if  a  girl  believes 
an  electric  ring  of  iron  will  cure  her  sweetheart's 
rheumatism  and  slips  it  on  his  finger,  will  the 
rheumatism  be  very  violent  when  he  angrily  dis 
cards  it? 

Miss  BAILEY  [laughing].  It  is  a  little  ex 
treme,  but  we'll  suppose  it. 

DR.  WILSON  [looking  to  right  and  left  and 
then  in  a  'very  loud  whisper  with  a  great  show  of 
secrecy].  Don't  ever  tell  my  students,  but  —  I 
don't  know!  Warts  have  been  wished  off  and 

88 


LUCK? 

fortunes  have  been  won  by  seeing  the  moon  over 
the  right  shoulder,  and  people  have  given  other 
people  good  luck  with  a  five-leaf  clover.  To  be 
serious,  however,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  though 
we  could  talk  scientifically  about  it  for  weeks  and 
use  big  words  long  as  the  stock-broker's  tape,  I 
don't  know  how  much  influence  one  mind  has 
over  another.  [Looking  at  Evelyn  again.'} 
People  who  really  have  experiences  are  so  se 
cretive  about  them,  it's  hard  to  get  data. 

Miss  BAILEY.  I  quite  sympathize  with  them. 
Suppose  you  had  a  hope  or  a  fear  hardly  acknowl 
edged  to  yourself  even  and  there  seemed  to  be 
evidence  of  its  affecting  some  one  you  loved  — 
would  you  want  to  discuss  it?  Whether  you  be 
lieved  in  such  a  force  or  not,  the  proofs  to  make 
it  seem  possible  would  be  inviolable. 

EVELYN.     What  big  words,  Josephine  I 

DR.  WILSON.     Would  you  call  it  obsession? 

Miss  BAILEY.  Oh,  I  would  call  it  something 
more  sacred.  The  feeling  of  such  a  person  over 
another  person  would  be  something  between  a  re 
ligious  ecstasy  and  a  self-conviction  of  sin. 
[Profoundly  and  earnestly.] 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Well,  I  don't  think  people 
have  any  business  to  poke  into  other  minds  and 
influence  them.  It's  as  bad  as  stealing  silver 
spoons. 

Miss  BAILEY.  Suppose  they  don't  know  it,  or 
that  it  is  a  force  they  can't  control  even  if  they 
do  know. 

EVELYN.  All  this  is  very  entertaining  but 
so  — 

89 


SHORT  PLAYS 


DR.  WILSON  [interrupting  quickly].  Per 
sonal? 

EVELYN  [sweetly].  No,  I  was  going  to  say 
so  caviare  to  the  general.  Such  queer  talk  for  a 
tea  —  caviare  —  why  don't  you  stick  to  ices  ? 
[She  turns  as  if  to  go.] 

DR.  WILSON.  Too  vague,  you  think?  [De 
taining  her.]  Come  out  to  the  University  where 
we  are  trying  to  do  some  practical  work.  Dr. 
Roger  Campbell  was  to  have  given  a  lecture  on 
psychology  of  the  brain  this  afternoon  —  that's 
material  enough,  isn't  it? 

EVELYN  [nonchalantly].     And  didn't  he? 

DR.  WILSON.  He  was  unable  to  carry  out  his 
purpose. 

EVELYN.     That  seems  unlike  him. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Was  he  stage-struck?  Lose 
his  head? 

DR.  WILSON.  Not  exactly  his  head  —  he  lost 
his  brain. 

MRS.  YOUNG.     I  can't  believe  it  I 

DR.  WILSON.  It  seemed  an  easy  matter  for 
him  to  get  a  brain  because  he  is  pathologist  at  the 
city  hospital,  you  know  —  or  did  you  know  ? 
[Inquiringly  of  Evelyn.] 

EVELYN.     I  think  I  have  heard  so. 

DR.  WILSON.  So  he  had  access  to  unusual 
things.  But  the  husband  of  the  sometime  owner 
of  this  particular  brain  turned  up  unexpectedly 
and  made  allegations  about  his  late  wife's  lack 
ing  certain  organs  which  he  seemed  to  think  nec 
essary  to  her  full  equipment  for  the  next  world 
and  further  stated  that  the  autopsy  was  held 
without  the  permission  of  the  bereaved  family. 

90 


LUCK? 

Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  he  demanded 
the  recalcitrant  brain  and  had  the  doctor  ar 
rested. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Arrested,  oh,  how  horrible! 
Oh,  dear  me,  he  is  not  still  languishing  in  prison? 

DR.  WILSON.  Oh,  no,  a  doctor  hasn't  time 
for  that. 

EVELYN.  A  doctor  never  has  time  for  any 
thing  he  doesn't  like. 

DR.  WILSON.  A  doctor  can  always  furnish 
an  alibi.  The  imaginary  patient  is  the  doctor's 
unfailing  alibi. 

[Mrs.  Fulsom  and  Miss  Carmichael  come  in  in 
a  wild  state  of  excitement. ~\ 

MRS.  FULSOM.  What  under  the  sun  do  you 
think?  [They  are  all  intensely  interested.]  An 
unheard-of  thing  is  happening!  [They  become 
somewhat  excited.]  A  most  outrageous  thing! 
[Their  excitement  grows.] 

Miss  BAILEY.  Oh,  tell  us  —  don't  keep  us  in 
suspense. 

MRS.  YOUNG.     Oh,  please! 

MRS.  FULSOM.  There  are  two  policemen  out 
side! 

Miss  WRIGHT.     Policemen? 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Yes,  two  large,  capable,  ro 
bust,  red-faced,  blue  policemen  —  determined  to 
force  an  entrance. 

Miss  BAILEY.  They  must  be  detailed  here 
to  guard  the  tea. 

Miss  WRIGHT.     Nonsense! 

Miss  BAILEY.  Why,  it  would  be  perfectly  pos 
sible  —  nowadays  with  so  many  cases  of  klepto 
mania  in  society. 

91 


SHORT  PLAYS 


MRS.  FULSOM.  But  it  isn't  that  at  all.  Their 
business  is  more  —  more  sanguinary. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  For  heaven's  sake,  what  do 
they  want?  Are  they  drunk? 

MRS.  FULSOM.     No,  they  are  deadly  sober. 

Miss  WRIGHT.     What  on  earth  do  they  want? 

MRS.  FULSOM.  That  is  the  extraordinary  and 
dreadful  part  of  it.  They  want  Roger  Camp 
bell!  They  have  a  warrant  for  his  arrest  and 
they  have  tracked  him  here.  They  won't  be  dis 
suaded  from  it.  They  say  they  are  sorry  to 
disconcert  a  tea  but  that  the  law  is  the  law. 
They  are  very  nice  about  it.  They  say  they  are 
willing  to  come  in  anywhere,  through  the  roof 
and  attic  by  means  of  a  ladder,  or  through  a  cellar 
window,  or  the  back  kitchen  door.  They  are 
not  intent  upon  the  front  door  and  the  drawing- 
room.  But  even  with  their  manners  it  is  so 
dreadful. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Even  a  refined  arrest  is  so  — 
so  —  malevolent!  [Looking  round  with  her  us 
ual  propitiatory  alr.~] 

MRS.  FULSOM.  They  say  he'd  much  better  be 
told  so  he  can  sneak  out  the  back  door  with 
them  quietly,  but,  of  course,  no  one  wants  to  tell 
him. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  Mr.  Mellicent,  couldn't 
you  break  the  news  to  him  —  you  could  do  it 
so  gently. 

MR.  MELLICENT  [/or  the  first  time  opening 
his  lips'].  I  —  I  — 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Or,  better  still,  go  and  per 
suade  those  policemen  to  go  away?  You  can  be 
so  persuasive! 

92 


LUCK? 

MR.  MELLICENT.  I  —  I  —  I  should  be  most 
happy. 

EVELYN  [turning  to  go  toward  the  door]. 
How  singular  —  at  a  tea !  [She  is  about  to  go 
out,  looking  backward  at  them,  when  she  runs 
smack  into  Roger  Campbell  coming  in  at  the 
left.-] 

CAMPBELL.     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

EVELYN.  It  was  all  my  fault.  [With  mean 
ing.]  People  deserve  to  be  knocked  down  if 
they  don't  look  where  they  are  going. 

CAMPBELL.     I  was  clumsy. 

EVELYN.  I  wasn't  looking  —  I  was  unavoid 
able. 

CAMPBELL.  You  are,  quite,  but  it  was  my 
place  to  attempt  to  avoid  you. 

[She  disappears  through  the  door  at  the  left 
and  he  comes  into  the  room.  The  people 
all  look  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  ghost.  He 
smiles  rather  constrainedly  and  bows.] 

CAMPBELL.     How  do  you  do? 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  Dr.  Campbell,  we  were 
just  talking  about  you  —  about  —  what  were  we 
talking  about?  Coincidences,  wasn't  it?  Or 
would  you  say  coincidence?  [She  flutes,  smiling 
as  usual]. 

CAMPBELL.     I  hope  I  haven't  interrupted. 

[  Two  policemen  enter  from  the  right,  preceded 
by  a  little  noise  of  voices  and  bustling  on  that 
side.] 

FIRST  POLICEMAN.  He's  here,  you  know,  all 
right,  and  he's  got  to  go.  [He  stops  and  looks 
around  at  the  group.]  Which  is  him?  That? 
[He  points  at  Mr.  Mellicent.  Clutching  his  club 

93 


SHORT  PLAYS 


he  makes  a  stride  toward  that  gentleman  in  a 
bullying  manner.] 

MR.  MELLICENT.  Oh,  dear,  no!  [Fright 
ened  and  dropping  back  to  the  protection  of  the 
ladies. ] 

POLICEMAN.  I  thought  not.  You  wouldn't 
kidnap  a  fly,  would  you? 

MR.  MELLICENT.  I  really  should  not  enjoy 
interfering  with  the  sacred  liberty  of  anything, 
even  a  tiny  winged  creature. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  How  eloquent  even  in  such 
adverse  circumstances! 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  friends,  we're  wastin' 
time. 

CAMPBELL  [stepping  forward].  What  is  it 
you  want? 

POLICEMAN.  A  feller  by  the  name  of  Dr. 
Campbell. 

CAMPBELL.     I  am  he,  what  do  you  want? 

POLICEMAN.     Well,  then,  come  along. 

CAMPBELL.     What  for? 

POLICEMAN  [insinuatingly].  Well,  I  reckon 
you  know. 

CAMPBELL.     I  don't. 

POLICEMAN.     Well  maybe  it'll  come  to  you. 

CAMPBELL.     Explain  yourself. 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  if  it  ain't  came  to  you  yet, 
maybe  you'll  find  out  soon  enough. 

CAMPBELL.  If  you  have  any  business  with  us, 
out  with  it. 

POLICEMAN.  We  ain't  got  any  business  with 
us,  but  with  you. 

CAMPBELL.     What  is  it? 


94 


LUCK? 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  we  don't  want  to  give  you 
away  before  your  friends. 

DR.  WILSON.  Come,  come,  my  men,  don't 
make  a  scene  here.  Go  away  and  the  doctor  will 
follow  you. 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  not  much  he  won't  follow 
us,  he'll  go  mil.  That's  what  he'll  do.  [Threat 
eningly.]  An'  we  don't  want  none  of  your  but- 
tin'  in,  neither.  The  law's  the  law  and  you'd 
better  not  interfere.  We've  had  about  'nough 
trouble  over  this  case  and  we're  gettin'  peevish. 

CAMPBELL.  Get  at  it!  Tell  what  you're 
driving  at! 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  if  you  must  know,  we're 
going  to  arrest  you  for  kidnapin'  that  child. 

CAMPBELL.     For  the  Lord's  sake,  what  child? 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  it  ain't  goin'  to  do  you  no 
good  neither  to  look  innocent  nor  to  get  mad. 

CAMPBELL.  I  have  kidnaped  no  child  and  I 
refuse  to  be  arrested. 

POLICEMAN.  They're  right  all  right;  they 
got  the  number  of  your  car.  And  so  her  folks 
is  dead  sure  it  was  you.  You'll  have  to  produce 
the  child. 

CAMPBELL.  Will  somebody  kindly  lend  me 
a  child?  I'm  nothing  but  an  unworthy  bachelor, 
you  know. 

POLICEMAN.  Well,  we're  wastin'  time.  An', 
as  I  made  mention  of  before,  we're  gettin'  wore 
out.  You  kidnaped  the  infant,  come  along. 

CAMPBELL.  I  did  not  kidnap  an  infant.  I'm 
no  such  fool.  If  I  were  going  to  kidnap  any 
thing  it  would  be  a  grown  woman.  I  wouldn't 
stop  at  a  baby. 

95 


SHORT  PLAYS 


POLICEMAN.  Now  stop  your  kiddin'  or  I'll 
have  to  use  force. 

CAMPBELL  [growing  very  angry  at  last]. 
Will  you,  though !  [He  clenches  his  fists.'] 
Touch  me  if  you  dare!  [The  two  face  each 
other  and  a  row  seems  imminent.] 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  dear,  oh  dear !  Mr.  Mel- 
licent,  do  part  them ! 

DR.  WILSON.  Hold  on,  Campbell!  Remem 
ber  the  ladies.  There's  a  good  fellow! 

CAMPBELL.  Then  you'd  better  shoo  the  ladies 
out  of  here. 

POLICEMAN.  Sure,  Mike,  this  ain't  no  place 
for  ladies. 

CAMPBELL.  What  about  you?  What  busi 
ness  have  you  to  enter  a  house  this  way?  It 
strikes  me  it's  your  place  to  get  out. 

POLICEMAN.  I'm  goin' — but  not  alone.  I 
love  company. 

[The  policeman  starts  for  Campbell,  who  is 
quick  and  muscular,  hauls  of  with  his  fist  and 
hits  the  policeman  in  the  face.  The  ladies 
shriek.  Both  policemen  make  for  Camp 
bell] 

DR.  WILSON.  Hold  on,  Campbell,  don't 
fight !  You'll  have  to  go  with  them. 

[There  is  a  great  tussle  and  confusion.  The 
policemen  grab  him,  he  slips  from  them,  they 
catch  him  again  and  hold  him  tight,  one  of 
them  swears.] 

POLICEMAN.  We'll  put  handcuffs  on  you,  if 
necessary.  [Produces  them.] 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Handcuffs!  Oh,  Mr.  Melli- 
cent!  [Clinging  to  that  worthy's  arm.] 

96 


LUCK? 

DR.  WILSON.  Out  this  way  —  go  out  this 
way,  men  —  down  through  the  kitchen  and  the 
back  door. 

[  The  policemen  drag  Campbell  to  the  door  at 
the  left  where  Evelyn  is  just  entering.  She 
hurries  by  them  and  across  the  room  to  the 
other  ladies.  There  is  great  confusion,  ex 
clamation  and  excitement,  and  the  curtain 
goes  down  as  the  policemen  drag  Campbell 
out,  followed  by  Dr.  Wilson,  leaving  the 
frightened  ladies.  The  affray  takes  up  two 
or  three  minutes.] 


ACT  III. 

[Tea-room  of  the  Beechmont  Country  Club 
on  the  next  afternoon,  October  $ist.  The 
finals  of  the  fall  golf  tournament  are  being 
played.  The  room  is  filled  with  rocking  and 
straight  backed  chairs  and  settees  of  wicker  and 
some  mission  furniture.  Some  old  prints  and 
modern  posters  are  on  the  walls.  There  is 
a  large  table  on  which  the  silver  cups  and 
trophies  are  displayed.  At  the  right  is  a  desk 
extension  telephone  on  a  table.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  rather  in  front  is  a  low  tea- 
table  where  Miss  Bailey,  Miss  Wright,  and 
Miss  Carmichael  are  drinking  tea.~\ 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.     Marriage  is  just  an  in 
vention  of  society  for  the  suppression  of  genius. 
Miss  BAILEY.     Oh,  what  deplorable  cynicism! 
Miss    CARMICHAEL.     No,    only   observation. 
97 


SHORT  PLAYS 


I  have  seen  so  many  girls  who  seemed  to  ha^ 
brains,  marry  and  have  their  brains  swallowed  i 
by  their  husbands.  Marriage  is  a  thought  d 
stroyer.  Husbands  gorge  themselves  on  the 
wives'  intellects  till  the  poor  things  have  scarce 
enough  left  to  make  pickles. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  You  talk  as  if  pickles  wei 
made  with  brains  instead  of  vinegar. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  It's  about  half  and  hal 
No  cooking  is  savory  without  intellect  in  tl 
preparation.  That's  why  the  French  are  so  su 
cessful.  They  are  the  cleverest  people  in  tl: 
world.  Their  brains  are  spicy. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  All  the  same,  being  a  womai 
I  believe  in  marriage.  Maybe  that's  because  I'i 
not  a  genius  but  only  a  humdrum  sort  that  lik< 
to  ride  in  a  man's  automobile  and  to  be  take 
to  the  theater.  If  I  were  a  man  I  might  belie\ 
in  George  Meredith's  marriage  for  ten  years  sy 
tern,  but  being  a  woman  I  want  mine  tied  to  me  J 
tight  as  possible  —  I  don't  want  anything  left  s 
he  can  escape. 

Miss  BAILEY  [seriously  —  Miss  Bailey  is  a 
ways  serious].  Do  you  think  there  are  vei 
many  unhappy  marriages? 

Miss  WRIGHT.     How  on  earth  is  any  one  1 
know?     After  they're  married  people  won't  te 
any  more  than  after  they're  dead.     One  thing 
sure,  if  a  married  man  will  flirt  with  you,  you  ca 
draw  your  own  conclusions. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  A 
men  are  natural  polygamists  and  if  a  marrie 
man  will  flirt  with  you  it  doesn't  prove  that  \. 
is  unhappy,  but  only  that  he's  versatile. 

98 


LUCK? 

doesn't  prove  that  he's  heretical,  but  only  that  he's 
haremical. 

Miss  BAILEY  [laughing'}.     You  are  cynical! 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.     No,  only  sensible. 

[Mrs.  Fulsom  and  Dr.  Wilson  enter  from  the 
right  side  chatting  gaily.'] 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Well,  what  are  you  girls  do 
ing  that  you  are  having  such  a  good  time? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Doing  what  two  or  three 
met  together  always  do  —  eating. 

DR.  WILSON.  And  what  are  you  talking  about 
that  you  all  are  so  interested  in? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  The  subject  unmarried 
women  left  alone  together  for  three  minutes  al 
ways  discuss  —  matrimony. 

[Mrs.  Fulsom  and  Dr.  Wilson  laugh.} 

DR.  WILSON.  Married  women,  I  suppose, 
don't  talk  about  it  —  they  bear  it  in  silence. 

Miss  BAILEY.  Well,  you  know,  one  is  really 
privileged  to  have  opinions  if  one  has  grown  into 
a  grey-haired  spinster.  [She  is  rather  an  old 
young  lady  with  grey  hair.'] 

DR.  WILSON  [smiling'}.  My  dear  girl,  grey 
hairs  do  not  a  spinster  make,  nor  added  years 
old  age.  [He  bows  to  her  with  great  deference.'} 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  think  spinsters  are  born,  not 
made. 

DR.  WILSON.  Yes,  and  it  isn't  a  question  of 
marriage.  I  know  many  married  old  maids.  It 
has  always  seemed  to  me  that  women  are  divided 
into  two  classes,  the  eternal  Sappho  and  the  eter 
nal  mother.  The  spinster  is  a  sort  of  third  es- 
state,  like  the  clergy.  And,  for  that  matter, 
spinsterhood  is  not  a  question  even  of  sex. 

99 


SHORT  PLAYS 


There  are  male  spinsters.  The  division  can  nol 
be  made  by  nature  through  the  arbitrary  distinc 
tion  of  sex,  nor  yet  by  man  through  the  arbitrary 
laws  of  marriage. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Oh,  I  have  known  olc 
men  spinsters  —  they  are  the  worst  of  all. 

[Evelyn  comes  in  in  a  hurry,  evidently  nerv- 
otis.] 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Hello,  Evelyn,  you  give  one 
the  impression  of  having  been  sent  for. 

EVELYN  [pulling  of  her  gloves  in  haste] 
How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Fulsom?  Good  after 
noon,  Dr.  Wilson.  [She  is  very  nervous.  Be 
gins  to  take  off  her  hat,  pulling  out  the  pins,  then 
as  if  recollecting  herself,  thrusts  them  in  again.} 

Miss  WRIGHT  [watching  Evelyn  closely] 
You  still  give  me  the  idea  of  some  one  with  ar 
inward  agitation.  Did  you  forget  to  take  youi 
digestive  tablet  this  morning? 

EVELYN  [pulling  herself  together  and  smiling 
calmly].  Don't  judge  others  by  what  the  doc 
tor  prescribes  for  you,  dear.  I  never  need  di 
gestive  tablets. 

Miss  BAILEY.  Who  is  hostess  for  this  after 
noon? 

EVELYN.  I  am.  I  was  on  the  committee  bul 
I  didn't  intend  to  come,  for  I  have  a  headache  — 

Miss  WRIGHT.  You  seem  to  have  a  good 
many  headaches  lately. 

EVELYN.  Mrs.  Gray  is  hostess,  but  at  the  last 
minute  she  telephoned  me  she  couldn't  be 
here  and  to  take  her  place.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
late. 

Miss  BAILEY.  Oh,  no,  you  aren't.  People 
100 


LUCK? 

lever  begin  to  come  till  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  games  are  nearly  over. 

Miss  WRIGHT  [with  a  meaning  look  at  Eve- 
yn~\.  I  don't  know  what  could  have  made  me 
hink  of  him  —  but  has  anybody  heard  anything 
ibout  Roger  Campbell? 

Miss  BAILEY.  He  is  playing  his  finals  this 
ifternoon,  so  he  must  have  managed  to  break  his 
)rison  bars. 

DR.  WILSON.  I'll  tell  you  about  him.  It 
vas  his  car,  sure  enough,  that  had  the  baby,  but 
he  kidnaper  was  his  chauffeur  and  not  the  doc- 
:or.  The  man  was  a  friend  of  the  little  girl's 
mnt,  somebody's  cook,  and  he  picked  up  the 
>aby  and  took  her  for  a  ride.  He  brought  her 
n  all  safe  and  sound  with  cracker-jack  and  chew- 
ng-gum  and  an  ice-cream  cone  and  the  alarmed 
ramily  was  pacified.  But  Campbell  was  arrested 
igain  in  the  evening  for  running  into  an  old  man. 
Fhe  old  fool  literally  walked  in  front  of  Camp- 
>ell's  car  and  couldn't  be  avoided.  He  wasn't 
nuch  hurt,  fortunately. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be 
irrested  this  afternoon.  We  had  the  glass  front 
ip  in  the  car  so  we  didn't  feel  the  wind  so  much 
ind  we  came  whooping  along  and  nearly  demol- 
shed  a  fat  policeman  who  was  crossing  the  street. 
rle  almost  had  to  run  and  you  know  a  police- 
nan  can't  any  more  run  than  a  tight  oil  can  can. 
Fhat  is,  you  can  what  you  can,  and  so  on!  Imag- 
ne  the  catastrophe.  We  missed  him  by  an  inch. 
vVell,  Roger  isn't  so  slow.  To  be  arrested  three 
:imes  in  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours  is  go 
ng  some. 

101 


SHORT  PLAYS 


EVELYN.  You'd  better  look  out.  Peop] 
who  ride  in  automobiles  with  glass  fronts  oughtn 
to  throw  stones. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  I  hear  the  doctor  is  having  a 
sorts  of  bad  luck  in  his  game  this  afternoon. 

[Evelyn  goes  out.'] 

DR.  WILSON.  He  is.  He  has  a  miserab' 
caddy  and  the  little  fool  has  allowed  two  bal 
to  hit  his  shins  and  lose  two  holes  for  Cam] 
bell.  I'd  never  get  in  the  way  of  a  golf  bal 
myself.  But  caddies  rush  in  where  angels  fez 
to  tread. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Poor  little  fellow!  I  ai 
sure  I  should  not  want  a  golf  ball  to  hit  my  - 
ankles.  They  must  hurt  awfully. 

DR.  WILSON.     They  do.     It's  a  great  pity 
hadn't  hit  him  on  the  head  and  killed  him. 

MRS.  FULSOM  [delightedly].  Oh,  you  blooi 
thirsty  person! 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Well,  everybody  has  picke 
Roge  for  the  winner  but  I  know  he  won't  b 
He's  a  dandy  player  but  he  hasn't  got  an  ope 
and  shut  cinch,  for  there's  such  a  thing  as  luc 
and  he's  having  awful  luck  lately. 

[The  telephone  rings.     Miss  Wright,  who 
standing  near,  answers  it.] 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Hello!  Yes,  this  is  tt 
Country  Club.  Dr.  Campbell?  No,  I  can't  ca 
Dr.  Campbell  to  the  telephone.  No,  I  can 
possibly,  the  Green  Committee  would  skin  me. 
say  the  Green  Committee  would  skin  me,  ye 
skin  me.  He  must  not  be  inter-rupted,  I  tell  yc 
—  he's  playing  in  the  finals.  You  are  his  gram 
father's  man?  That  doesn't  impress  me  mud 

102 


LUCK? 

I  wouldn't  call  him  if  you  were  his  grandfather's 
grandmother.  Well,  then,  be  frank.  The  old 
gentleman  is  in  a  cage?  Oh,  in  a  rage!  Heard 
that  his  grandson  had  been  speculating?  Seems 
rather  likely.  Heard  that  his  grandson  had 
been  arrested  again?  Well,  what  of  that?  Ar 
rests  occur  of  the  best  regulated  automobiles. 
If  I  were  you  I'd  just  try  to  pacify  the  old  gen 
tleman.  He's  ramping  around?  Up  and  down, 
is  he?  You'd  better  keep  him  shut  up  in  one 
room  and  not  let  any  of  his  devoted  friends  call 
on  him,  for  he  might  hear  still  worse  things  — 
things  that  would  throw  him  straight  into  a 
fit.  Devoted  friends  are  bad  enough  any  time 
but  they're  particularly  so  when  you're  in  a  cage 
—  I  mean  in  a  rage.  Well,  I  can't  help  it  if 
he  does  have  the  gout  —  he  can't  have  his  grand 
son.  I  should  think  the  gout  would  be  enough. 
If  it  hurts  him  to  stamp  about,  why  on  earth 
doesn't  he  sit  down?  If  I  were  you  I'd  give  the 
old  gentleman  a  nice  soft  kitten  to  nurse  and  see 
if  that  won't  amuse  him.  If  he  comes  to  the  tele 
phone  and  swears,  I'll  have  him  arrested!  Mer 
ciful  heavens!  He  is  going  to  disinherit  his 
grandson ! 

[Campbell  enters,  from  the  right,  in  his  golf 

clothes.     He   wears   a  pair   of  white   duck 

trousers    somewhat    soiled    where    he    has 

wiped  his  hands  after  the  manner  of  golfing 

gentlemen  and  he  has  on  a  white  silk  shirt 

with  turnover  collar  and  flowing  tie.     His 

sleeves  are  rolled  up  and  he  limps.     Miss 

Wright  looks  at  him  over  her  shoulder.'} 

Miss   WRIGHT.     I    can't   talk   over   personal 

103 


SHORT  PLAYS 


matters  with  you  in  a  public  place.      [She  hangs 
up  the  receiver  with  a  bang.'] 

DR.  WILSON.  Hello,  old  man,  how's  the 
game? 

CAMPBELL.     Rotten.     I  came  in  for  some  tea 

DR.  WILSON.     Nothing  stronger? 

CAMPBELL.  Not  while  I'm  playing,  thank 
you.  Henderson  wanted  something,  so  we 
stopped  for  a  few  minutes.  My,  but  that  tea 
smells  good.  I'm  terribly  thirsty. 

[Evelyn  enters  with  a  plate  of  cakes  in  one 
hand  and  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  other.  They 
are  clearly  embarrassed,  standing  still  ana 
confronting  each  other  for  the  moment.] 

MRS.  FULSOM.  The  doctor  wants  some  tea, 
Evelyn. 

EVELYN.  Oh,  won't  you  have  this?  [Sht 
hands  him  the  cup,  which  he  is  about  to  take.] 

Miss  WRIGHT.  How  awfully  fortunate  thai 
you  happened  to  have  just  what  he  wanted  1  \In 
passing  the  cup  from  one  hand  to  the  other  they 
drop  it.  It  smashes  to  the  floor  and  the  con 
tents  splash.  They  exclaim  and  in  picking  up 
the  pieces  they  bump  into  each  other.  Dr.  Wil 
son,  then,  also  stoops  to  help.  Roger  limps  tc 
the  table  with  the  pieces.] 

MRS.  FULSOM.     Aren't  you  a  little  lame? 

CAMPBELL.  Yes,  I  turned  my  ankle  down  in 
the  ravine  where  I  lost  a  ball.  I  stepped  on  a 
stone  and  hurt  the  ball  of  my  foot. 

DR.  WILSON.     Did  you  find  the  ball? 

CAMPBELL  [smiling].  Well,  the  ball  is  here 
all  right,  as  I  have  reason  to  know. 

104 


DR.  WILSON.     But  the  ball? 

CAMPBELL.     No,  I  lost  the  ball. 

DR.  WILSON.     Then  you  lost  the  hole? 

CAMPBELL.  Yes,  I  have  lost  two  holes,  no, 
three,  this  afternoon  by  losing  balls. 

EVELYN.     Won't  you  have  a  cake  ? 

CAMPBELL.     Thank  you,  not  a  cake. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  should  think  you'd  want 
something  sweet. 

CAMPBELL  [with  a  glance  at  Evelyn].  I  do, 
but  it  doesn't  seem  to  agree  with  me. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  If  I  had  as  much  bad  luck 
as  you,  I'd  take  anything  pleasant  that  came  my 
way. 

CAMPBELL.     I  don't  believe  in  luck,  you  know. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  don't  blame  you.  I  don't 
see  how  you  could  any  more. 

CAMPBELL.  I  mean  bad  luck.  I'm  not  super 
stitious. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  No?  Well,  I  had  a  cousin 
once  who  wasn't  superstitious  and  once  he  was 
walking  under  a  ladder  and  a  brick  fell  on  his 
head.  It  takes  more  than  a  brick  to  make  some 
people  tumble,  however. 

MRS.  FULSOM.     I  hear  you're  winning. 

CAMPBELL.  "  Report  greatly  exaggerated," 
as  Mark  Twain  said  when  he  was  reported  dead. 
I'm  not  beaten  —  yet.  Which  reminds  me  that 
Henderson  may  be  waiting. 

Miss  WRIGHT.     Good  luck  to  you ! 

[He  turns  and  gives  her  a  cross  look  over  his 
shoulder,  yet  half -laughing,  as  he  goes  out.~\ 

DR.  WILSON.  I  am  a  little  worried  about  him. 
105 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Some  men  might  get  discouraged  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  such  a  streak  of  adversity,  and  i 
would  affect  their  game. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  You  mean  bad  luck,  by  you 
streak  of  adversity?  But  I  think  he's  looking 
pretty  hardy  yet,  don't  you,  Evelyn  ? 

EVELYN.     I  really  didn't  notice. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  I  observed  you  didn't  look  a 
him  much. 

EVELYN.  Quite  as  much  as  usual.  It's  no 
my  game  to  watch  people  in  order  to  make  re 
marks  at  their  expense  afterwards. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  If  my  aesthetic  nature  wouk 
permit  me  to  be  vulgar,  I  should  say,  "  Dear  me 
wouldn't  that  freeze  you?"  \With  a  glanct 
and  gesture  at  Evelyn.  Mrs.  Young  and  Mr 
Mellicent  enter  from  the  right.'} 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Isn't  it  a  charming  day  ?  Mr 
Mellicent  and  I  have  been  discussing  the  part 
ing  of  autumn  all  the  way  over.  He  is  going  tc 
make  some  beautiful  allusions  to  it  and  quota 
tions  about  it  in  his  sermon  Sunday. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  He  might  quote  from  Tarn  o 
Shanter  —  that  seems  appropriate  as  to  seasor 
and  morality. 

DR.  WILSON.  Won't  you  come  out  with  me 
Mellicent,  and  watch  the  game?  I  think  the} 
are  coming  in. 

MR.  MELLICENT.     I  should  be  charmed. 

DR.  WILSON.  Would  you  like  to  see  it,  Misj 
Carmichael?  Or  is  gossip  more  sport  thar 
sport? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Indeed,  I  should  love  tc 
come.  You  can't  always  watch  a  good  game 

106 


LUCK? 

af  golf,  but  gossip,  like  the  poor,  you  have  always 
tvith  you. 

DR.  WILSON  [as  they  go  out].  Golf  first,  gos- 
>ip  afterwards,  like  a  cordial. 

[Mr.  Mellicent  bows  low  to  the  ladies  and  the 

three  go  out,  Miss  Wright  preceding  the  two 

men  and  Mellicent  with  lowered  head  in  his 

habitual  manner  of  deference.] 

Miss    WRIGHT.     I    want   to    tell   you    about 

Roge.     It  was  his  grandfather's  man  telephoning 

ust  now  and  he  wants  his  grandson  right  away 

—  I  mean  the  old  gentleman  does.     He's  in  a  per- 
:ect  cage  —  I  mean  a  rage  —  and  he  says  he's 
*oing  to   disinherit  his   grandson.     He's   heard 
ibout  all  the  arrests  and  the  patients  dying  —  as 
f  Roge  could  help  that,  if  they  will  die  —  and 
:he  speculating  and  everything.     I  don't  believe 
le'd  mind  anything  but  the  money.     He's  such  a 
itingy  old  codger.     Oh,  dear,  I  never  saw  such 
L   streak  of  bad  luck.     It's   awful.     Roge   told 
3r.  Wilson  that  some  stocks  broke  aWfully  yes- 
erday  and  worse  this  morning  and  he'd  probably 
lave  to  sell  his  automobile  and  maybe  his  office 
'urniture. 

MRS.  YOUNG.     He  was  perhaps  merely  joking 

—  he's  such  a  witty,  amusing  young  man. 
Miss  WRIGHT.     I  never  heard  of  a  man  jok- 

ng  at  his  own  funeral. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  It  is  so  hard  for  a  man  to 
irrange  about  money.  He  never  has  any  jewelry 
o  sell. 

Miss  WRIGHT.  No,  I  suppose  overcoats  and 
lats  are  good  to  wear  out,  but  don't  bring  in 
nuch. 

107 


SHORT  PLAYS 


[Miss  Carmichael  comes  rushing  in  in  a  grea 

state  of  excitement.] 

Miss  WRIGHT.  Why,  Betsy,  what's  the  mai 
ter  with  you?  Was  there  a  lion  in  your  path? 

Miss  CARMICHAEL  [breathless'].  Oh,  it' 
dreadful ! 

Miss  WRIGHT.     You  look  it  —  but  what  is? 
Miss  CARMICHAEL.     It's  horrible! 
Miss  WRIGHT.     But  what? 
Miss  CARMICHAEL.     It  is  too  much ! 
Miss  WRIGHT.     I  never  knew  you  to  be  inai 
ticulate  before  —  make  signs. 

Miss  CARMICHAEL.  Dr.  Campbell  was  beate; 
in  his  golf  match. 

Miss  WRIGHT.     Confound  the  luck ! 
Miss  CARMICHAEL.     But  that  wasn't  all. 
ALL  OF  THEM.     Well? 
Miss  CARMICHAEL.     He  was  hit  on  the  heai 
by  a  golf  ball  and  knocked  senseless  and  they  ar 
bringing  him  in  here  now. 

[They  all  exclaim  and  are  properly  affected  b 

the  awful  intelligence.'} 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  where  is  Mr.  Mellicent 
He  will  be  able  to  do  something.  He  is  alway 
so  efficient. 

[There  is  a  noise  of  footsteps.  The  ladie 
bustle  about.  Campbell  is  assisted  in  fro'n 
the  right  by  Dr.  Wilson  and  Mr.  Mellicent 
who  have  their  arms  about  him  supporting 
him.  His  ankle  is  really  sprained  and  h> 
leans  on  them.  They  are  both  very  solic 
itous,  Mr.  Mellicent  actually  so,  Dr.  Wil 
son  acting.  Mr.  Mellicent  futile  as  usual. 

108 


LUCK? 

DR.  WILSON.     Get  him  a  chair,  please. 

[The  ladies  skurry  about,  pulling  the  tables  and 
chairs  out  of  the  way  and  place  an  arm  chair 
in  the  center  of  the  room.  The  men  help 
him  to  it  and  he  sits  down.'] 

DR.  WILSON.  Do  you  feel  better  now,  old 
chap? 

CAMPBELL.     No,  I  think  I  feel  worse. 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Oh,  some  one  get  him  a  glass 
of  brandy! 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  has  any  one  a  camphor 
bottle?  Or  eau  de  cologne?  Or  would  he  pre 
fer  smelling-salts?  Would  you  prefer  smelling- 
salts,  doctor? 

[The  women  all  crowd  about  him.} 

MRS.  FULSOM.  Surely  he  ought  to  have  some 
brandy. 

DR.  WILSON.  No,  no,  I  think  not.  Not 
brandy.  But  if  you  will  not  stand  so  close  about 
him.  Let  him  have  a  little  air.  And  if  some 
one  would  kindly  bring  a  glass  of  water.  [Miss 
Wright,  Miss  Bailey,  Mrs.  Fulsom,  and  Miss 
Carmichael  all  rush  out  to  get  some  water.] 
And  perhaps  some  ice  on  his  head  would  be  a 
good  thing.  [Evelyn,  who  has  been  hiding  in  the 
background,  hurries  of  for  the  ice.] 

CAMPBELL.     I'm  all  right. 

DR.  WILSON  [in  a  loud  whisper  to  Roger  while 
the  women  are  out].  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
be!  Now's  your  chance.  Pretend  you're  hard 
hit.  Make  an  impression.  Act  for  all  you're 
worth ! 

CAMPBELL.     Well,  I  was  hard  hit.     I  am. 

DR.  WILSON.  At  it,  then.  Keep  it  up !  [In 
109 


SHORT  PLAYS 


the  following  scene  Campbell  acts  as  a  man  doei 
who  is  a  little  delirious  or  drunk.] 

[The  other  women  all  come  in  each  with  a  glas: 
of  water  and  stand  round  holding  the  glasses 
much  in  evidence  and  simultaneously  offer 
ing  theirs  to  him.  He  looks  at  the  glasses 
in  a  dazed  way.] 

MRS.  YOUNG.  As  you  have  a  plethora  oi 
glasses,  would  it  not  be  well  to  dash  one  in  hh 
face?  I  have  heard  it  was  salutary  in  cases  oi 
fainting. 

[Evelyn  has  come  in  quietly  and  stands  behina 
his  chair  where  he  can  not  see  her,  holding  a 
chunk  of  ice  on  his  head.] 

CAMPBELL  [rather  cringing  from  Mrs 
Young'].  Please  don't.  [Water  is  trickling 
from  the  ice  on  his  head.]  I  feel  as  though  il 
had  already  been  done,  but  maybe  it  is  only  water 
on  the  brain.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  something 
on  my  mind,  but  I  can't  think  what.  [He  turns  up 
his  eyes  as  if  to  see  what  is  on  top  of  his  head.] 

DR.  WILSON.  You're  all  right,  old  fellow, 
How  do  you  feel? 

CAMPBELL  [very  feebly  and  with  a  great  wink 
at  Dr.  Wilson  while  the  women  have  turned  their 
heads  away  for  a  moment'].  Extremely  dotty. 
I  seem  to  see  round  things  in  the  air  all  looking 
at  me.  [He  points  out,  waving  his  hand,  at  the 
audience  which  he  must  be  directly  facing.]  I 
can't  tell  whether  they  are  made  of  heads  or  golf 
balls  or  rings  —  I  suppose  it  doesn't  matter  much 
if  there  is  nothing  in  them. 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Dear  me,  he's  wandering,  isn't 
he? 

no 


LUCK? 

CAMPBELL.  No,  my  dear  lady,  I  am  sitting 
ight  here.  It's  the  heads  and  golf  balls  and 
ings  that  are  wandering.  I  feel  like  a  sick  Cy- 
ano  de  Bergerac  —  sitting  here  —  as  if  I  were 
ccupying  the  center  of  the  stage.  Has  any  one 
!one  anything  to  my  nose  ? 

MRS.  YOUNG.  Oh,  he  is  certainly  delirious! 
)h,  Mr.  Mellicent,  please  say  whether  you  think 
e  will  be  permanently  affected? 

CAMPBELL.  Oh,  lord,  Mellicent,  don't  make 
[ie  effort  on  my  account!  I  know  what's  the 
latter  with  me  —  I  drank  too  much  tea.  Ever 
rink  too  much  tea,  Mellicent? 

MR.  MELLICENT.  I  —  I  —  I  do  not  remem- 
er  to  have  — 

CAMPBELL.  You're  a  lucky  man  not  to  have 
memory,  Mellicent.  I  wish  I  didn't  remember 
o  much.  You're  a  happy  man,  I  wish  I  didn't 
emember.  But  don't  ever  drink  too  much  tea 
gain.  It  makes  queer  things  befall  you,  golf 
alls  and  planetary  influences.  Just  now  an 
erolite  from  Venus  fell  on  my  head.  If  it  had 
een  from  Mars  it  would  have  been  more  com- 
ortably  warm,  so  evidently  it's  from  Venus  — 
tie's  the  one  who  hands  you  out  the  icy  heart. 
As  he  says  this  Evelyn  lets  the  piece  of  ice  slip 
ff  and  it  slides  down  over  his  shoulder  into  his 
ip  and  thence  to  the  floor  —  if  fortunate  enough 
cross  the  stage  out  over  the  foot-lights  and  into 
he  audience.  At  the  same  time  the  telephone 
Ings.  Miss  Wright  answers  it.  There  is  con- 
Vernation  and  confusion.] 

CAMPBELL   [looking  after  the  piece  of  ice~\. 
"here  goes  my  marble  heart, 
in 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Miss  WRIGHT  [at  the  telephone}.  Yes?  this 
is  the  Country  Club.  Oh,  you  are  Roger  Camp 
bell's  grandfather.  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  Oh, 
indeed,  I  meant  no  insinuations.  I  have  heard 
you  have  the  gout.  Yes,  I  knew  you  are  all  put 
out.  Well,  they  have  just  carried  him  in. 
Yes,  there  has  been  a  terrible  accident  and  the 
doctor  has  been  fearfully  injured.  We  are  —  we 
are  [with  deep  gravity  and  impressiveness]  just 
keeping  him  alive  with  stimulants  now.  Good- 
by.  [Hangs  up  the  receiver.]  Maybe  that  will 
fix  him  for  a  while!  [Peter,  Roger's  grand 
father's  man,  comes  in  at  the  right,  the  other  side 
of  the  stage.] 

DR.  WILSON  [To  Evelyn].  That  ice  must 
have  chilled  you.  [He  walks  to  her  and  takes 
her  two  hands,  holding  them  and  chafing  them 
tenderly.] 

PETER  [deferentially  at  the  door].  I'm  Dr. 
Campbell's  grandfather's  man. 

CAMPBELL  [looking  as  miserable  as  possible], 
Hello,  Peter!  I've  been  pretty  hard  hit.  Take 
me  home!  [Peter  helps  him.  He  pretends  to 
faint. 

[CURTAIN.] 


ACT  IV. 

[Hallowe'en  evening  of  the  same  day,  Octo 
ber  T>ist.  The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  Act  I, 
the  library  in  Evelyn's  home.  Nor  ah  enters 
from  the  right  and  Evelyn  from  the  left.  Eve 
lyn  is  quiet,  preoccupied.  She  is  pale,  dressed 
112 


LUCK? 

in  a  soft  white  gown,  open  at  the  throat,  and 
is  prettier  than  ever.  They  cross,  Evelyn 
walking  slowly  and  unconsciously.  The  maid 
hurries  to  the  table,  where  she  lights  the  lamp, 
the  room  had  been  rather  dark.  Evelyn 
throws  herself  into  a  chair  and  watches  Norah 
dreamily,  with  troubled  eyes.~\ 

NORAH.     Timmie's  come  back,  miss. 

EVELYN.     Timmie? 

NORAH.  The  little  black  cat,  miss.  He's 
just  wandered  in  a  few  minutes  ago.  He  found 
his  way  back  all  by  his  little  self  and  was  that 
tired,  but  so  pleased  to  get  home.  I  gave  him  a 
saucer  of  milk. 

EVELYN.  Oh,  the  dear  little  thing!  We'll 
keep  him  this  time,  the  sweet,  blessed  little  fellow, 
to  find  his  way  back  all  alone  I 

NORAH.  I'm  thinkin'  the  fairies  must  have 
helped  him,  miss.  [She  goes  to  the  small  stand 
and  picks  up  the  gloves  Campbell  left  there. 
She  puts  them  down,  watching  Evelyn  furtively. 
Then  she  picks  them  up  again  and  is  about  to 
walk  away  with  them,  when  Evelyn  turns  upon 
her  quickly."} 

EVELYN  [a  little  sharply].  How  many  times 
have  I  told  you  not  to  move  those  gloves,  No 
rah? 

NORAH.  I've  dusted  round  thim,  miss,  for 
two  days,  according  to  your  explicit  directions, 
miss,  an'  now  he'll  niver  come  no  more  at  all,  at 
all,  to  claim  thim! 

EVELYN.  Norah,  what  right  have  you  to  say 
that?  What  do  you  mean? 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NORAH.  I  mane  the  accident,  miss.  [Wipes 
her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron.'] 

EVELYN.  Nonsense,  it  wasn't  much  of  an  ac 
cident.  He  was  only  hit  by  a  golf  ball  and 
stunned  a  little.  They  thought  it  was  worse  than 
it  was.  It  didn't  prove  to  be  anything  serious. 

NORAH.  I  wasn't  referrin'  to  that,  miss,  but 
to  the  other  accident.  Me  friend,  Mr.  O'Hooli- 
han,  the  policeman,  jist  told  me  — 

EVELYN.     What  was  it?     Tell  me. 

NORAH  [looking  away  and  with  her  handker 
chief  to  her  eyes.~\  I'd  rather  not  be  the  one  to 
tell  you,  miss. 

EVELYN.     Norah,  tell  me  at  once. 

NORAH.  Well,  thin,  miss,  me  friend,  Mr. 
O'Hoolihan  —  he's  an  officer,  you  know,  miss  — 
he  — 

EVELYN.     Yes,  go  on.     [Excitedly.] 

NORAH.  Mr.  O'Hoolihan  said  —  he  told 
me  — 

EVELYN.     Norah,  out  with  it ! 

NORAH.  Mr.  O'Hoolihan  said  that  Dr. 
Campbell's  automobile  was  run  into  by  an  electric 
car  and  all  smashed  up. 

EVELYN  [startled].     Were  there  people  in  it? 

NORAH.  Oh,  yes,  miss,  the  car  was  full  of 
people. 

EVELYN.  I  don't  mean  the  car,  but  the  auto 
mobile.  [She  gets  up  and  takes  a  step  toward 
the  maid.] 

NORAH.  Him,  himself,  miss,  and  was  all  de- 
sthroyed,  miss,  like  a  potato  under  a  potato 
masher. 

EVELYN.    Not  —  not  —  ? 
114 


LUCK? 

NORAH.     Yes,  miss,  jist  that,  miss.     Kilt  en- 
toirely. 

[Evelyn    takes    a    quick    sharp    breath    like    a 
moan.     She  grasps  the  back  of  the  tall  chair 
for  support  and  leans  against  it.     Norah  has 
thrown  her  apron  over  her  head  as  she  fin 
ishes  speaking  and  weeps  aloud  under  it  with 
great  sobs  that  are  said  to  relieve  an  aching 
heart.     Evelyn  finally  speaks  brokenly."] 
EVELYN.     I  can't  bear  this.     I  am  going  to 
him,     straight     to     him.      [After     a     moment.'] 
Norah,  you  are  not  to  tell  any  one  about  the 
accident  or  where   I   have  gone.     You   are  not 
to  speak  of  it  to  any  one,  Norah.      [She  goes  out 
at  the  right  door  and  is  gone  a  moment.     Norah 
stands  with  lowered  apron  and  woe-begone  face. 
Evelyn  enters  again,  throwing  over  her  shoulders 
a    long    and   very    becoming    soft    white    wool 
wrap.~\ 

EVELYN.     Be  sure  not  to  tell  a  soul,  Norah. 
I  am  going  to  him. 

NORAH.  No,  miss,  I'll  not  tell  a  living  soul. 
[Evelyn  hurries  out  at  right  again.  After  she 
has  gone,  the  maid  wipes  her  eyes,  looks  for 
the  gloves,  takes  them  up,  breaks  forth  into 
fresh  wailing,  lays  them  down  and  goes  out 
at  left,  shaking  her  head,  moaning  and  say 
ing,  "  Oh,  the  poor  young  man"  etc.,  in  a 
sort  of  croon.  The  doorbell  is  heard  at 
once.  Norah  comes  in  from  the  left,  is 
hurrying  across  the  room  when  she  sees 
just  in  front  of  her  Campbell,  who  is  en 
tering  from  the  right.  She  utters  a  shriek 
and  backs  precipitately  and  frantically.'} 


SHORT  PLAYS 


CAMPBELL.  How  do  you  do,  Norah  ?  Won't 
you  let  me  come  in? 

NORAH  [from  under  her  apron,  which  she  has 
flung  over  her  head~\.  Is  it  yerself,  sir? 

CAMPBELL.     I  hope  it  is. 

NORAH  [in  a  half -stifled  voice].  Oh,  are  ye 
sure,  sir? 

CAMPBELL.     Why,  yes,  practically  sure. 

NORAH.  But  sure  ye  are  a  ghost  able  to  come 
in  with  the  door  shut? 

CAMPBELL.  The  door  was  standing  open,  so 
I  walked  in  after  ringing  the  bell.  Is  Miss  Eve 
lyn  in  ? 

NORAH  [lowering  her  apron  a  little  at  a  time, 
cautiously,  watching  him~\.  No,  sir,  she  ain't  in, 
she  wint  to  —  \With  an  illuminating  smile. ~\ 
But  she  told  me  not  to  tell  yez  where  she  wint  till 
she  came  home. 

CAMPBELL.     Oh,  she  expected  me,  then? 

NORAH.  She'll  be  that  glad  to  see  ye,  sir, 
when  she  gets  back.  I  don't  think  she'll  be  gone 
long.  [Grinning  very  delightedly  and  slyly.] 
Will  ye  please  make  yerself  at  home,  sir.  [She 
goes  out  at  left.  Campbell  puts  down  his  hat 
on  a  chair  and  walks  about  taking  off  his  gloves, 
which  he  deposits  on  the  rim  of  his  hat.  He 
walks  around  the  room,  looking  at  things,  and 
reads  to  himself  with  exaggerated  interest  the 
titles  of  the  books.  Goes  to  the  table,  finally  sits 
down  in  a  chair  with  his  back  to  the  right  en 
trance,  crosses  his  legs  with  an  attempt  at  elab 
orate  ease  and  commences  to  read.  He  is  able 
to  keep  still  only  for  a  few  moments,  flings  the 
book  away  from  him  and  gets  up  and  walks  about 

116 


LUCK? 

again.  He  goes  to  the  low  bookcase  and  picks 
up  the  pot-pourri  jar,  examining  the  contents, 
puts  it  down  again.  He  walks  over  to  the  left 
front  of  the  room  and  is  intently  examining  some 
thing  with  his  back  to  her  when  Evelyn  enters 
from  the  right  back  —  diagonally  across  the  room 
from  him.  He  whirls  around  and  they  stand  still 
facing  each  other.  She  is  white  and  intense,  he 
flushed  and  excited.'} 

EVELYN.     You! 

CAMPBELL  [smiling  with  a  sort  of  half  embar 
rassed  attempt  to  be  at  easel.  I  —  I  came  for 
my  gloves. 

EVELYN.     They  would  have  been  sent  to  you. 

CAMPBELL.  But  they  are  still  here  exactly 
where  I  left  them.  [He  picks  up  the  gloves  and 
looks  at  her  with  a  question."} 

EVELYN.  When  you  found  them,  why  didn't 
you  go? 

CAMPBELL.  I  was  invited  to  stay.  Norah 
said  you  wanted  to  see  me. 

EVELYN.  Norah  seems  to  have  the  truly  Irish 
gift  of  foresight. 

CAMPBELL.  We  felt  alike  about  it.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  the  consanguinity  of  the  Celtic  tem 
perament.  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  I  am 
neglecting  that  part  of  my  inheritance  —  pre 
monitions,  foresight,  omens,  and  other  Scottish 
soul  perquisites. 

EVELYN.  Have  you  come  back  to  cultivate 
them  here? 

CAMPBELL.  You  put  it  in  a  more  beautifully 
figurative  way  than  I  could  have  done. 

EVELYN.  Superstitions,  symbols,  and  all  such 
117 


SHORT  PLAYS 


follies.  Are  you  going  to  study  them  scientifically 
or  for  their  poetic  value? 

CAMPBELL.  Miss  Vaughn,  I  wish  you  could 
realize  that  I  am  terribly  embarrassed.  [He 
thrusts  one  hand  deep  into  his  coat  pocket.] 

EVELYN.     You!     Really? 

CAMPBELL.  Yes,  it's  unusual,  I  know.  But  I 
have  to  do  a  very  —  for  me  —  unusual  thing.  I 
wish  you  would  help  me.  [Beseechingly,  half 
whimsically.'] 

EVELYN.     What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

CAMPBELL.  What  do  I  want  you  to  do?  Oh, 
lord,  I  should  think  you  would  know!  But  I've 
got  to  get  through  my  part  first  Evelyn,  I've 
got  to  acknowledge  myself  wholly  in  the  wrong 
and  to  apologize  to  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Can  you  forgive  me  ? 

EVELYN.  Oh,  I  was  frightened  to  death  by 
your  accident  just  now ! 

CAMPBELL.  My  accident?  Did  I  have  an 
other  ? 

EVELYN.     Oh,  they  told  me  you  were  killed! 

CAMPBELL.  So  that's  where  you've  been  and 
why  you  went? 

EVELYN.  They  said  you  were  killed  and  I 
found  you  were  not  even  scratched  and  I  hated 
you  for  the  horrible  fright  you  gave  me.  Oh,  I 
hated  you.  If  you  only  knew  how  you  made  me 
suffer!  They  said  your  automobile  was  run  into 
and  you  were  killed. 

CAMPBELL.  I  wasn't  and  it  wasn't.  It  must 
have  been  some  other  fellow.  I've  had  so  many 
accidents  that  they've  got  into  the  habit  of  at 
tributing  them  all  to  me.  No,  I  haven't  been 

118 


LUCK? 

even  scratched,  not  since  the  golf-ball.  Except  by 
my  conscience.  I  was  on  the  way  to  my  Swastika 
—  you  are  my  Swastika  —  that  is  why  I  was  SO 
miraculously  preserved  this  time. 

EVELYN.     You're  laughing. 

CAMPBELL.  For  heaven's  sake,  let  me!  I 
haven't  for  two  whole  days  and  four  hours,  fifty- 
two  hours.  It  wasn't  the  things  going  wrong  — 
I  rather  enjoyed  that,  for  they  acted  as  a  coun 
ter  irritant.  And  when  I  had  lost  the  one  thing 
that  was  worth  while  the  rest  wasn't  even  a  baga 
telle.  "  From  him  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken 
even  that  which  he  hath  "  and  he  won't  mind. 
Also,  what  bothereth  a  man  if  he  lose  the  whole 
world,  having  lost  his  own  girl? 

EVELYN.  Oh,  how  can  you  be  so  flippant 
when  the  thing  is  so  serious  ? 

CAMPBELL.  Maybe  to  hide  my  seriousness. 
It  is  a  question  of  life  and  death  to  me.  [Becom 
ing  earnest  and  coming  close  to  her.'}  I  have 
been  a  beast.  I  have  had  my  cudgeling  and  I 
deserved  it.  I  want  to  know  if  you  will  forgive 
me? 

EVELYN.  It  isn't  a  question  of  forgiveness! 
Forgiveness  is  for  strangers  —  it  is  a  futile  word 
to  use  between  people  who  have  been  as  close  to 
each  other  as  we  have  been.  The  thing  is 
deeper.  It  is  a  question  of  understanding.  And 
of  respect. 

CAMPBELL.  I  have  gained  some  understand 
ing  both  of  you  and  of  myself.  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  respect  you  utterly  and  that  I  know 
now  where  all  my  happiness  lies  —  it  lies  only  in 
making  you  happy.  I  was  a  prig  not  to  want 

119 


SHORT  PLAYS 


to  wear  the  ring  and  I  was  a  beast  to  refuse  it. 
I  will  wear  it  or  anything  else  you  wish.  It  is 
for  you  to  decide  what  you  will  do  with  me. 

EVELYN.  Oh,  I  was  thoughtless  and  young 
and  foolish  to  want  you  to  wear  it.  But  it  hurt 
me  so  to  have  you  think  I  was  superstitious.  Do 
you  now?  I  must  know. 

CAMPBELL.  No,  but  you  like  to  play  with  it. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  poetry  of  it  that  attracts  you. 
It  does  me,  too,  for  that  matter.  Evelyn,  will 
you  get  the  thing  and  put  it  on  my  finger? 

EVELYN.  But  I  must  be  sure.  [She  takes  a 
step  towards  him.  He  holds  out  his  arms.] 
No,  not  yet.  We  must  be  sure.  Do  you  under 
stand  me? 

CAMPBELL.  I  think  I  do,  but  no  one  can  be 
sure  of  that.  The  thing  I  am  sure  of  —  and  it 
is  the  only  thing  that  matters  —  is  that  I  love  you 
enough  to  love  all  the  queer  little  things  you  do 
just  because  they  are  you.  I  appreciate  you  now, 
I  don't  criticize  —  there's  a  difference.  Please 
get  the  fool  thing  and  put  it  on.  Good  lord,  I 
want  it  so. 

[Evelyn  goes  to  the  pot-pourri  jar  and  extracts 
the  ring  therefrom.  Campbell  follows  her, 
not  too  near.~\ 

CAMPBELL.  In  that?  I  picked  that  up  a  few 
minutes  ago  and  was  tempted  to  open  it. 

EVELYN.  Yet  even  now  you  are  not  retreat 
ing  from  your  position  in  the  least.  [Smiling.] 

CAMPBELL.  Of  course  I  wasn't  drawn  to  the 
jar  in  any  occult  way.  It  was  the  rose  leaves  I 
wanted  to  smell.  [He  grins  and  holds  up  his 
finger.] 

1 20 


LUCK? 

EVELYN.  I  meant  if  you  didn't  come  at  last, 
to  drop  it  into  the  river. 

CAMPBELL.  But  you  can't  drown  bad  luck. 
It  has  more  lives  than  a  cat. 

EVELYN.  But  this  is  good  luck.  I  didn't 
want  it  without  you.  I  give  it  to  you  and  then 
you  are  to  put  it  on  my  finger,  and  I  will  wear  it 
as  your  proxy. 

CAMPBELL.  No,  you  know  I  am  not  en 
tirely  reconciled  to  the  little  outlandish  thing  yet. 
Some  people  used  to  wear  hair  shirts  next  their 
tender  bodies.  With  a  person  of  my  disposition 
it  is  more  salutary  to  wear  one's  humiliation  on 
the  exterior  for  everybody  to  see. 

[He  holds  out  his  finger.  They  are  both  nerv 
ous  and  trembling.  She  fumbles  a  little  and 
finally  wedges  the  ring  down  to  its  place. 
He  catches  her  two  hands  in  his.'] 

CAMPBELL.  It  was  you  that  did  it,  dearest. 
You  taught  me  sense,  you  made  me  come  to  you. 
You  were  in  my  dreams,  in  my  thoughts.  You 
were  with  me  all  the  time.  You  were  in  every 
thing.  The  sincerity,  the  sweetness  of  you. 

EVELYN.  Thought  transference?  [Smiling.] 
Don't  grow  superstitious,  dear. 

CAMPBELL  [smiling,  too'].  I  don't  know. 
But  what  does  it  matter?  What  does  anything 
matter?  So  that  we  have  this  wonderful  elemen 
tal  thing  —  this  love !  It  is  the  good  luck  that 
makes  everything  else  come  right. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  Just  then  Norah 
comes  in  at  the  door  left,  unconscious  of  the 
tableau  and  her  intrusion,  with  the  black  kit 
ten  in  her  arms.  She  smiles  and  pretends  to 

121 


SHORT  PLAYS 


look  abashed,  holds  up  the  little  black  cat 
towards  them  as  if  in  benediction  and  then 
silently  and  coyly  retreats  on  tiptoe.~\ 

[CURTAIN.] 


122 


ENTR'  ACTE. 

TIME:     The  present. 

PLACE:     A  handsomely -furnished  room  in  a  mod 
ern  mansion. 
PERSONS:     ROMEO,  JULIET,  and  CARMEN. 

[The  scene  is  a  dress  rehearsal  of  a  play 
some  society  people  are  producing  for  a  char 
ity.  It  has  been  written  by  one  of  them  and 
is  to  be  given  under  her  direction.  All  the 
characters  are  noted  personages  of  the  Drama, 
among  them  Romeo,  Juliet,  and  Carmen. 
Romeo  and  Juliet  are  lovers  in  the  play.  The 
two  people  who  are  to  take  the  parts  are  in 
truth  in  love  with  each  other,  but  their  engage 
ment  has  been  broken  through  a  misunder 
standing  due  to  jealousy.  They  are  both 
proud.  Romeo  believes  Juliet  hates  him,  while 
Juliet  thinks  that  he  is  in  love  with  the  girl 
who  is  to  take  the  part  of  Carmen.  Their  af 
fair  has  not  been  known  to  the  others,  hence 
the  awkward  situation  which  they  have  neither 
of  them  been  able  to  evade,  of  their  being 
cast  for  lovers.  The  play  is  to  be  given  the 
next  evening  in  this  private  house  and  the 
dress  rehearsal  is  now  going  forward  in  the 
drawing-room.  The  curtain  rises  disclosing  an 
unoccupied  room  some  distance  from  the 
drawing-room.  It  is  well  and  tastefully  fur- 
123 


SHORT  PLAYS 


nished  and  must  have  a  long  old-fashioned  gilt 
mirror  and  a  couch.  There  must  be  a  large 
center  space  clear  for  dancing.  Romeo  en 
ters,  followed  by  Juliet.  Romeo  is  a  graceful 
fellow  with  a  pleasant  voice,  and  is  good-look 
ing,  dressed  in  a  beautiful  costume  of  light 
blue  velvet  and  satin  with  silver  trimmings. 
Juliet  is  in  white  with  gold  in  the  trimmings 
of  fillet  and  girdle,  and  the  slightest  touch  of 
rose.  She  wears  a  pink  rose,  and  she  has  blue 
eyes,  is  fair,  impetuous,  with  a  glowing  love 
liness.  They  are  both  absorbed  in  their  manu 
scripts,  learning  their  parts  at  the  last  minute 
after  the  manner  of  amateur  actors.  They 
both  carry  a  large  roll  of  manuscript  in  their 
hands.] 

ROMEO.  This  is  the  room  I  meant.  It  seems 
to  be  empty.  I  guess  we  can  go  through  our 
parts  here.  It's  far  enough  from  the  rabble  for 
us  to  be  able  to  hear  each  other  speak. 

JULIET.     I  never  heard  such  a  howling  mob. 

ROMEO.  That's  what  a  dress  rehearsal  is  — 
it's  anarchy.  [ They  both  speak  in  a  sort  of  con 
strained  politeness  and  consult  their  manuscripts.] 
Um  —  um  —  where  shall  we  begin  ? 

JULIET  [fumbling  with  her  manuscript].  I 
suppose  you  can't  put  any  restraint  upon  people 
who  give  their  services. 

ROMEO.  No,  you  can't  put  a  bit  in  a  gift 
horse's  mouth. 

JULIET.  When  people  give  their  services, 
they  think  that's  all  that  can  be  asked  of  them. 
There's  no  further  responsibility. 

124 


ENTR'  ACTE 


ROMEO.  No,  it's  the  feel  of  the  cool  silver 
dollar  that  produces  a  sense  of  responsibility. 
It's  money  makes  the  manager's  automobile  go. 
I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  girl  who  is  trying  to  man 
age  this  play.  Some  one  told  me  she  wrote  it, 
too  —  did  she? 

JULIET.  Oh,  yes,  she  wrote  it.  That's  why 
she  is  silly  enough  to  think  she  knows  more  about 
it  than  we  do. 

ROMEO.  That's  just  like  an  author.  They 
always  think  they  know  more  about  their  plays 
than  the  actors  do.  Why,  an  actor  can  always 
find  a  meaning  the  author  never  knew  was  there. 

JULIET  [turning  the  pages  of  her  manuscript 
again'}.  Where  shall  we  begin?  [She  goes  over 
to  the  couch  and  sits  down.~\ 

ROMEO.  Before  we  begin,  would  you  mind 
telling  me  what  charity  we  are  giving  the  play 
for?  So  many  people  have  asked  me. 

JULIET.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know? 
[Romeo  shakes  his  head  and  they  both  laugh .] 

ROMEO.  Of  course  I'm  charitably  inclined. 
Any  old  charity  works  me  —  if  I  can  get  any  fun 
out  of  it. 

JULIET.  It  is  for  the  benefit  of  "  The  Society 
for  the  Erection  of  Portable  Patent  Swings  for 
the  Children  of  Scrub  Women."  They  were 
-  dreadfully  afraid  the  League  would  get  ahead  of 
them  with  their  operetta,  but  they  have  beaten  the 
League  out  by  a  week. 

ROMEO.     What  league? 

JULIET.  Oh,  "  The  League  for  the  Distribu 
tion  of  Free  Sand  Piles  for  the  Orphans  of  Street 

125 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Car  Motormen."  The  two  charities  are  ready  to 
cut  each  other's  throats,  you  know. 

ROMEO.  No,  I  didn't  know.  But  it's  me  for 
the  scrub  women.  The  motormen's  offspring 
ought  to  inherit  enough  sand. 

JULIET.  With  your  usual  predilection  you 
choose  the  sex.  [Smiling  sarcastically  and  getting 
up.]  We  must  get  to  work. 

ROMEO.  Of  course,  right  you  are.  Now  I'm 
on.  Shall  we  do  the  balcony  scene? 

JULIET  [fumbling  with  her  manuscript'].  But 
we're  not  alone  in  that  scene. 

ROMEO.     We  ought  to  be,  by  rights. 

JULIET  [scntentiously~\.  I'm  very  glad  we're 
not.  Oh,  here  it  is  —  where  Cyrano  de  Bergerac 
comes  under  my  balcony  and  tries  to  make  me 
think  he's  Romeo  —  that  is,  you  —  [rather  as  if 
talking  to  herself~\  —  when  you  are  really  with 
me  upstairs  all  the  time.  And  I  take  him  for  one 
of  the  pirates  in  "  Peter  Pan." 

ROMEO.  Jove,  hasn't  she  a  menagerie?  She 
has  done  up  the  whole  English  drama  into  a 
burlesque.  That's  like  modern  nerve,  'specially 
of  the  American  variety.  Imagine  Faust  and 
Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch  in  the  same 
breath.  They  talk  at  once,  you  know. 

JULIET  [without  smiling  and  still  at  her  manu 
script].  Of  course,  they're  both  philosophers. 

ROMEO.  And  of  the  two,  I  think  Mrs.  Wiggs 
the  less  objectionable. 

JULIET.  Your  predilection  for  the  feminine 
again.  Oh,  yes,  let's  begin  where  I  tell  you  not 
to  eat  any  green  apples  as  you  go  home  through 
my  orchard.  Oh,  and  by  the  way  [in  a  'very  off- 

126 


ENTR'  ACTE 


hand  manner],  in  the  balcony  scene  or  anywhere 
else  you  are  not  to  kiss  me.  They  all  say  you 
are  going  to. 

ROMEO.     The  play  calls  for  it. 

JULIET  [sarcastically  and  not  looking  at  him~\. 
My  copy  doesn't. 

ROMEO.  Perhaps  they  left  it  out  in  order  to 
give  you  a  pleasant  surprise. 

JULIET.     You  might  refer  to  other  copies. 

ROMEO  [bridling].  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate 
that  I  inserted  that  stage  direction  in  my  copy? 

JULIET.  I  don't  insinuate  anything  but  I  give 
you  fair  warning  that  if  you  try  it,  I  shall  slap  you. 
[Speaks  slowly  and  firmly  but  lightly.'] 

ROMEO  [haughtily  and  looking  very  angry~\. 
You  evidently  think  that  I  am  extremely  anxious 
to  kiss  you. 

JULIET.  Oh,  not  me,  particularly.  But  I 
shall  be  looking  very  nice  —  and  I  know  you.  I 
warn  you. 

ROMEO.  You  don't  know  me  so  well  maybe  as 
you  think  you  do. 

JULIET.  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Every  girl  knows 
the  man  who  has  —  who  has  — 

ROMEO.     Been  in  love  with  her. 

JULIET.  Thank  you.  Yes,  been  in  love  with 
her.  But  she  is  foolish  to  tell  him  so. 

ROMEO.  It  doesn't  make  much  difference 
whether  she  tells  him  or  not,  he  feels  it  any 
how,  like  a  sort  of  uncomfortable  subconscious 
fact  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

JULIET.     You  always  were  figurative. 

ROMEO.  Thank  you.  [Looks  down  at  his 
figure  and  then  strikes  an  attitude  in  front  of  the 

127 


SHORT  PLAYS 


long  glass  and  regards  his  reflection.  Juliet  also 
surveys  him  up  and  down.]  I  have  had  one  or 
two  compliments  upon  it  but  I  scarcely  expected 
one  from  you  —  now. 

JULIET  [f«  a  sort  of  embarrassed  coolness']. 
Oh,  I'd  like  you  to  know  that  I  think  it  is  aw 
fully  hard  on  you  to  have  to  make  love  now  to  a 
girl  you  hate,  but  you  needn't  think  it's  very  much 
pleasanter  for  me. 

ROMEO.     I  don't. 

JULIET.  And  I  want  you  to  understand  dis 
tinctly  that  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
casting  the  characters  of  this  ridiculous  play. 

ROMEO.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me 
to  credit  you  with  so  much  craft. 

JULIET.  Oh,  you  think  I'm  not  smart  enough 
to  cook  up  something  that  would  make  you  un 
comfortable  ? 

ROMEO  [gesturing  with  his  hand  to  his  stom 
ach].  I  have  already  alluded  to  a  man's  sub 
conscious  sensation.  I  ate  what  you  once  cooked 
up  for  me. 

JULIET.  It  isn't  exactly  delightful  to  be 
thought  stupid. 

ROMEO.  I  never  thought  you  stupid.  But 
you  have  always  attributed  to  me  whatever 
thoughts  you  thought  I  ought  to  think,  and  never 
believed  me  when  I  swore  I  could  think  other 
thoughts.  Keep  right  on  doing  it.  It  doesn't 
make  matters  any  worse. 

JULIET.     I  do  so  hate  a  stubborn  man. 

ROMEO.  Don't  put  yourself  to  the  embarrass 
ment  of  expressing  your  feeling  toward  me. 
[He  goes  over  to  a  chair  and  sits  down.]  Since 

128 


ENTR'  ACTE 


you  broke  our  engagement  {looking  at  his  manu 
script]  —  I  haven't  deluded  myself. 

JULIET.  Whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  I  did 
not  have  anything  to  do  with  casting  this  play. 
Or  rather,  I  tried  very  hard  to  have  it  cast  dif 
ferently.  I  wanted  them  to  let  Carmen  take  the 
part  of  Juliet.  I  know  how  agreeable  it  would 
be  for  you  to  play  with  her. 

ROMEO  [curtly].     So  good  of  you. 

JULIET.  But  there  was  the  song  and  [with  a 
little  malice]  —  she  can't  sing. 

ROMEO.  Perhaps  not,  but  I  understand  she 
can  dance.  It's  rather  fashionable  nowadays. 
Has  almost  superseded  singing,  hasn't  it? 

JULIET.  With  you,  doubtless.  You  always 
were  so  up-to-date. 

ROMEO.  Always  were.  [Getting  up.]  By 
Jove,  you  keep  referring  to  the  past  like  the  haunt 
ing  ghost  of  a  man's  first  wife. 

JULIET.  I  hope  Carmen's  dancing  will  give 
you  enough  joy  to  enable  you  to  bear  my  sing 
ing.  I'm  sorry  you  can't  have  her  in  my  part. 

ROMEO.  Thank  you,  I  can  get  along  without 
your  pity.  Why  don't  you  keep  a  little  of  it  for 
yourself?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  to  pre 
tend  to  a  little  fondness  for  me,  too. 

JULIET.  Oh,  only  in  a  song  and  a  song  is  so 
impersonal.  Anyway,  I'll  sing  it  to  the  audience. 

ROMEO.  In  the  legitimate  way  —  with  your 
left  eye  on  the  leader  of  the  orchestra  and  your 
right  eye  on  the  gallery,  with  the  fingers  of 
your  left  hand  tearing  up  my  wig  and  your  right 
hand  gesticulating  to  whomsoever  may  be  look 
ing. 

129 


SHORT  PLAYS 


JULIET.  You  needn't  be  afraid  that  I'll  touch 
your  wig.  It's  too  bad  this  play  couldn't  have 
been  given  a  month  ago  when  we  were  in  love 
with  each  other,  isn't  it?  Don't  you  think  we 
might  as  well  go  on  with  our  parts  now? 

[They  both  refer  to  their  manuscripts  again.] 

ROMEO.  It's  the  balcony  scene  I  need  most  to 
go  over.  Here,  sit  on  this  chair  [he  hands  one 
out  to  the  center  of  the  room  and  she  sits  down 
in  it]  and  I'll  sit  on  the  arm.  [He  sits  down  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  and  puts  his  arm  round  her. 
She  immediately  starts  up  and  away  from  him.] 

JULIET.     It's  not  necessary  for  you  to  do  that. 

ROMEO.     But  I  have  to  in  the  play. 

JULIET.  You  do  it  quite  naturally  enough 
without  any  rehearsing. 

ROMEO.  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  be  so  par 
ticular,  there's  no  use  in  rehearsing  at  all. 

[Carmen  enters  unobserved  from  the  same 
door  at  the  side  through  which  Romeo  and 
Juliet  came.  She  is  rather  small,  is  dark, 
gay  and  piquant.  She  is  dressed  in  brilliant 
red  and  carries  a  tambourine.] 

CARMEN  [aside].  Oh,  look  who's  here! 
Hello,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  billing  and  cooing  as 
usual?  [Romeo  jumps  to  his  feet  and  Juliet  and 
he  both  look  embarrassed  and  very  much  an 
noyed.]  Please  don't  let  me  interrupt  you. 

ROMEO.     We  just  came  in  here  to  rehearse. 

CARMEN.  Of  course.  It's  quite  natural,  I'm 
sure,  that  you  should  like  to  do  it  alone.  That's 
one  advantage  of  having  rehearsals  in  a  private 
house  —  the  —  lobby  rooms.  Because,  you  know, 
many  come  to  rehearse  who  remain  to  play. 

130 


ENTR'  ACTE 


ROMEO.  But  why  on  earth  should  they  want 
to  give  a  play  as  big  as  this  one  in  a  private  house? 
It  ought  to  be  in  a  hall.  A  big  play  for  a  well- 
known  charity  —  the  —  the  —  {looks  appealingly 
at  Juliet]. 

JULIET  [prompting  him].  "  Society  for  the 
Erection  of  Portable  Patent  Swings  for  the  Chil 
dren  of  Scrub  Women." 

ROMEO.     Yes,  just  what  I  was  going  to  say. 

CARMEN.  I  don't  entirely  wonder  that  you 
hesitated  to  say  it.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  by  do 
ing  this  the  elite  of  the  blanc  mange  hope  to  en 
tice  the  hoy-paloy  to  come  and  thereby  to  rake 
in  the  dirty  dollars  of  the  hoy-paloy  by  the  in 
ducement  of  the  opportunity  of  entering  a  house 
they  would  never  have  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
otherwise.  It's  the  diplomacy  of  philanthropy. 
But,  dear  me,  go  right  on  with  your  rehearsal, 
don't  let  me  interrupt  you.  I  just  came  in  here 
to  see  if  I  could  find  my  slippers. 

ROMEO  [stepping  forward,  glad  of  an  excuse]. 
Can  I  be  of  any  assistance  to  you? 

CARMEN.  Oh,  will  you?  You  are  so  kind. 
You  see  it  is  very  awkward.  I  can't  remember 
where  I  left  my  slippers,  the  ones  I  am  to  dance 
in.  It's  awfully  awkward. 

JULIET.  I  should  think  you  might  be. 
Everything  depends  on  the  slippers,  doubtless. 

CARMEN  [sweetly].  Not  everything,  dear. 
There  are  a  few  other  things  —  myself,  for  in 
stance. 

ROMEO  [gallantly].  Which  means  your  grace 
fulness. 

CARMEN.     Oh,    thank    you.     [Courtesies    to 


SHORT  PLAYS 


him.]     What  a  courtier  you  are,  Signor  Romeo! 

ROMEO.     Oh,  nothing  to  mention. 

CARMEN.  But  if  you  are  used  to  slippers,  they 
are  almost  necessary. 

ROMEO.     I  should  think  so. 

JULIET.     Quite  like  morals. 

CARMEN.  Yes,  slippers  and  morals  are  con 
nected,  aren't  they? 

JULIET.     In  early  youth. 

CARMEN  [sweetly'].     Yes! 

JULIET.  Spanking  —  that  obsolete  thing  — 
the  application  of  morals  by  the  slipper. 

CARMEN.  Oh,  I  was  referring  to  their  mutual 
absence  from  the  modern  dancing.  Do  you 
know,  I  hate  vulgar  allusions. 

JULIET.  So  do  I.  Why  do  you  make  them, 
then? 

ROMEO  [breaking  in].  I  think  I  might  as  well 
go  hunt  your  slippers. 

CARMEN.     Oh,  you  are  so  thoughtful] 

ROMEO  [smiling  somewhat  grimly].  I  don't 
know  that  I'd  call  it  that. 

CARMEN.  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  Look  for  them 
down  at  the  front  door  and  bring  them  back  to 
me  here.  I'll  wait  for  you. 

JULIET  [haughtily'}.  I'll  not  wait  for  you. 
If  you  think  we  need  to  go  through  our  parts, 
you  may  look  for  me  in  the  drawing-room  with 
the  others. 

ROMEO  [to  Carmen].  I'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy. 
[To  Juliet.]  I  think  we  both  need  it  awfully. 
[Exit.] 

CARMEN.     Isn't  he  a  dear ! 
132 


ENTR'  ACTE 


JULIET.     Romeos  are  a  necessary  evil. 

CARMEN.     How  awfully  cynical. 

JULIET.  That's  what  people  always  say  when 
you  tell  the  truth.  Romeo  is  like  maple  syrup  — 
a  little  of  him  goes  a  long  way. 

CARMEN.  Maple  syrup  is  more  comfortable 
to  have  round  than  gun-powder,  which  doesn't  go 
a  long  way,  but  manages  to  send  other  things 
whooping.  I  am  referring  to  Don  Jose.  [Sits 
down  on  the  arm  of  a  chair.'}  Well,  I  suppose 
we've  all  got  to  have  lovers  and  you  can  take  your 
choice  between  the  two  varieties:  the  kind  that 
gets  himself  into  trouble  and  the  kind  that  gets 
you  in.  I  prefer  the  kind  that  gets  himself  in. 

JULIET.     My  dear,  how  experienced  you  arel 

CARMEN.  I  reckon  we  all  are,  only  some  of 
us  are  more  candid  about  it  than  others.  Any 
how,  I  was  just  referring  to  our  stage  characters 
—  weren't  you  ?  Well,  the  author  of  this  play 
quite  took  the  worthy  English  drama  into  her 
own  hands  and  mixed  it  all  up  till  it  fairly  re 
sembles  real  life.  It  isn't  my  fault  that  she  didn't 
give  me  my  rightful  lover,  the  Toreador,  to  fall 
in  love  with,  but  substituted  Romeo  in  his  place. 
So,  I  have  to  flirt  with  Romeo.  It's  really  an 
awfully  sensible  arrangement,  for  in  the  end  when 
Don  Jose  kills  me,  Romeo  has  you  to  fall 
back  on. 

JULIET  [ironically'].  Only,  of  course,  it  will 
be  hard  on  him  to  have  to  put  up  with  me  after 
you. 

CARMEN.  Oh,  I  shall  not  make  myself  so 
fascinating  to  him  as  I  could.  [Juliet  turns  to 

133 


SHORT  PLAYS 


go.}  You  don't  mind  my  flirting  with  him,  do 
you,  dear? 

JULIET  [turning  around  abruptly].  Why,  cer 
tainly  not.  What  possible  difference  could  it 
make  to  me? 

CARMEN.  You  don't  know  how  it  relieves  me 
to  find  you  so  indifferent  after  —  after  —  what 
seemed  so  obvious. 

JULIET  [confronting  Carmen  icily'].  What 
seemed  so  obvious? 

CARMEN.  Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of  —  only 
that  you  were  desperately  in  love  with  Romeo. 
[She  goes  to  the  couch  and  sits  down.'} 

JULIET.     I  —  with  him  1 

CARMEN.  I'm  glad  it  seems  so  preposterous 
to  you.  Then  I  shall  not  feel  so  conscience- 
stricken  when  he  —  when  he  — 

JULIET.  When  he  makes  love  to  you?  Oh, 
dear  no !  You  quite  misunderstand.  What  pos 
sible  difference  could  it  make  to  me?  Get  all  the 
pleasure  you  can  out  of  it.  [Turns  to  go.}  I 
believe  he  does  it  very  nicely.  And  it  may  not 
last. 

CARMEN.  Are  you  talking  about  the  real 
thing  or  the  stage? 

JULIET  [indifferently}.  Either  —  both,  if  you 
like.  [Looking  back  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
walks  out  of  the  room}.  I  think  I  hear  my 
nurse,  the  Merry  Widow,  calling  me.  [She  goes 
out  at  one  side  just  as  Romeo  enters  from  the 
other  side.  But  they  have  not  seen  each  other.} 

ROMEO.  Ah,  there  you  are  still.  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  not  wait. 

CARMEN  [throwing  herself  on  the  couch  in  a 
134 


ENTR'  ACTE 


negligent,  enticing  attitude'].  For  you  —  I'd 
wait  —  ever  so  long. 

ROMEO  [becoming  a  little  more  interested  and 
approaching  her].  Would  you?  How  long? 

CARMEN.  Oh,  for  you  I'd  wait  for  ages  — 
for  ever. 

ROMEO.  I  shouldn't  ask  you.  I  never  want 
any  one  to  wait  for  me.  With  me  it's  touch 
and  go. 

CARMEN  [holding  out  her  hand].  Touch  — 
and  go  —  then.  Good-by. 

ROMEO.  Jove,  you're  in  a  hurry.  You  want 
to  get  rid  of  me?  This  doesn't  seem  to  be  my 
busy  day.  Nobody  wants  me  round. 

CARMEN.  Romeo,  you  certainly  are  a  de 
spondent  and  hot-headed  youth.  Do  you  think 
I  want  to  get  rid  of  you? 

ROMEO.  How  on  earth  should  I  know?  A 
man  never  knows  what  a  woman  wants  except 
when  she  doesn't  want  it. 

CARMEN.  There's  more  truth  in  that  than 
grammar.  It  sounds  learned  from  experience. 

ROMEO.     It  is. 

CARMEN.  Do  you  think  if  you  leave  me  and 
go  to  her,  you'll  get  such  a  warm  reception  from 
your  Juliet? 

ROMEO  [surprised].  What  do  you  know 
about  it? 

CARMEN.  That's  what  I  thought.  Why  do 
you  go,  then? 

ROMEO  \_smilin  g~\.  Well,  there's  the  re 
hearsal. 

CARMEN.  Oh,  nobody's  paying  any  attention 
to  that.  They're  just  getting  what  fun  they  can 

135 


SHORT  PLAYS 


out  of  it.  Won't  you  stay  here  and  play  hunt  the 
slipper  with  me? 

ROMEO  [coming  up  to  where  she  sits].  Oh, 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  couldn't  find  your  slip 
pers. 

CARMEN  [making  room  for  him  to  sit  down]. 
Couldn't  you?  [He  sits  down.]  That's  not 
surprising.  What  a  nice  little  dagger.  [Playing 
with  his  dagger.~\  They  weren't  there. 

ROMEO.     What?     I  beg  your  pardon? 

CARMEN.  The  slippers.  I  say  they  weren't 
there.  I  knew  they  weren't.  I  hadn't  lost  them 
at  all. 

[Romeo  leans  back  in  his  corner  of  the  couch 
and  regards  her  as  she  leans  back  in  her 
corner,  and  so  they  gaze  at  each  other  for  a 
few  moments.] 

ROMEO.     Well,  by  Jove  I 

CARMEN.  He's  a  great  friend  of  yours  — 
Jove  —  isn't  he?  You  refer  to  him  so  often. 
[Calmly.~\  No,  I  hadn't  lost  my  slippers  at  all. 
I  just  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  leave  Juliet  to  do 
something  for  me. 

ROMEO  [laughing  delightedly].  You  are  a 
cool  little  specimen! 

CARMEN.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  like  me  a  lit 
tle.  Do  you? 

ROMEO  [coming  closer  to  her].  What  would 
you  do  if  I  told  you  a  very  great  deal? 

CARMEN.  Dance  with  joy.  I  can  dance  well 
enough  in  these  slippers,  you  know. 

ROMEO.     Won't  you?     Forme? 

CARMEN.  Why,  yes,  I  might  as  well.  I  have 
136 


ENTR'  ACTE 


to  rehearse  it  anyway.  [She  gets  up  and  begins 
to  make  ready  for  the  dance.  Music  is  heard. 
The  music  used  for  this  dance  is  Espanita.  She 
holds  up  her  head,  listening.']  Why,  there's  the 
music  for  my  dance  —  they're  playing  it.  [She 
turns  to  look  at  him.  He  looks  gloomy.~\  Oh, 
my  Romeo,  methinks  thou  art  too  heavy. 

ROMEO.     I'm  not  heavy  at  all.     I  can  dance, 
too. 

CARMEN.     I  meant  thy  heart.     I  bid  thee  take 
love  lightly.      [She  begins  dancing. ~\ 

ROMEO.     "  As  the  leaves  hang  on  the  tree  "  ? 
CARMEN  [going  on  with  her  dancing~\.     Wilt 
thou  still  be  "  young  and  foolish  "  ? 

[She  continues  to  dance,  using  a  scarf  in  twist' 
ing  folds  over  her  head  and  about  her  body. 
Dances  for  him,  looking  at  him  all  the  while. 
He  sits  watching  her,  becoming  more  and 
more  attracted.  Watches  her  very  intently. 
He  sits  over  toward  her  on  the  sofa.  She 
keeps  on  dancing.  He  hesitates,  moves  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  couch  and  gives  up  to  a 
rapt  attention  of  her  beautiful  dancing. ~\ 
CARMEN.  Or  wilt  thou  —  come  —  to  —  me  ? 
[Low  and  very  slowly.] 

[Romeo  finally  gets  up  and  glides  to  her,  join 
ing  his  hands  to  hers,  which  she  has 
stretched  out  to  him,  she  leads  him  into  the 
dance.  She  has  been  dancing  alone  for  some 
minutes,  they  now  dance  together,  and  when 
they  stop  his  right  arm  is  behind  her,  his 
right  hand  holding  hers  and  her  head  thrown 
back  against  his  arm,  her  face  looking  up  into 

137 


SHORT  PLAYS 


his,  their  left  hands  in  front  of  them  also 
clasped.  Just  at  that  moment  they  stop. 
Juliet's  voice  is  heard  singing.] 

JULIET'S  SONG. 

Take  not,  dear  love,  away 

Thy  lips  so  dear  to  me ! 

Dear  is  the  night,  oh,  dark  and  wondrous 

dear  with  thee, 
And  far  away  the  day! 

Go  not,  my  love,  I  pray! 

In  yon  pomegranate  tree 

The  song,  you  hear,  sweetheart,  the  song 

can  only  be 
The  nightingale's  love-lay ! 

No  jealous,  blushing  day 
Nor  lark's  song  chiding  me 
For  keeping  thee,  my  only  love,  for  hold 
ing  thee, 
Commands  thee  come  away. 

Oh,  love,  no  longer  stay, 

Even  I  must  bid  thee  flee, 

Hark,  hark,  it  is  the  lark,  and  in  the  east 

I  see 
The  morning's  roses  gray ! 

Oh,  love,  begone,  begone, 
It  is  the  envious  dawn, 
Haste,  dear,  away! 
138 


ENTR'  ACTE 


\When  he  first  hears  her  singing,  Romeo  raises 
his  head,  turns  it  as  if  drawn  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  singing,  till  his  face  is  entirely 
away  from  Carmen,  who  watches  him  in 
tently.  He  gradually  releases  her  and  his 
arms  drop  to  his  side.  Juliet  sings  her  song 
through  and  as  she  does  so  Romeo  gradually 
turns  completely  from  Carmen  and  finally 
stands  with  his  back  to  her  and  facing  to 
ward  the  singing  voice.  He  raises  his  head 
and  stands  with  parted  lips,  listening.  A 
smile  comes  over  his  face  and  he  seems  to 
have  completely  forgotten  Carmen.  The 
music  approaches.  Romeo  takes  a  step  for 
ward,  Carmen  nods  as  if  in  understanding, 
smiles,  throws  him  a  kiss  and  runs  silently 
out  of  the  room  in  the  opposite  direction 
from  the  singing.  Romeo  does  not  notice 
her.  The  song  ceases  and  Juliet  enters. 
Romeo  takes  a  step  forward  impulsively  to 
meet  her,  but  she  haughtily  raises  her  head 
and  gives  him  a  cold,  questioning  look.] 
ROMEO.  You'll  not  resent  my  admiration  of 
your  song? 

JULIET.     And  not  the  singing? 
ROMEO.     I  meant  the  singing. 
JULIET.     They're  all  asking  for  you  at  the  re 
hearsal.     The  men  say  you're  soldiering,  you're 
not  helping  to  dress  the  scenes  and  ought  to  take 
your  share  of  the  heavy  work  of  carrying  chairs 
and  things,  and  the  women  say  you're  off  some 
where  flirting. 

ROMEO   [looks  around  and  sees  that  Carmen 
has  gone~\.     You  see  I  am  alone.     [He  smiles.] 

139 


SHORT  PLAYS 


JULIET.  Yes,  I  don't  see  whoever  has  just 
gone. 

ROMEO.  Perhaps  you  don't  see  why  she  went, 
either. 

JULIET.     I  am  not  interested  in  her  motives. 

ROMEO.     I  don't  think  it  was  a  motive. 

JULIET.     I  am  not  interested  in  her  impulses. 

ROMEO.  I  don't  think  it  was  an  impulse. 
My,  but  your  answers  are  bromidic ! 

JULIET.     I  am  bromidic. 

ROMEO.  No,  by  Jove,  you're  not!  You're 
anything  but  that  —  you're  as  rare  as  roses  in  a 
desert. 

JULIET  [with  a  smile'}.  You  mean  I'm  impos 
sible. 

ROMEO.  Not  quite  —  thank  Heaven !  —  but 
improbable.  A  near  miracle. 

JULIET.  I  am  bromidic  and  I  will  be  bromidic 
if  I  want  to.  I  am  not  interested  in  her  motives 
nor  her  impulses  nor  anything  else  about  her.  I 
am  not  interested  in  her. 

ROMEO.     Who  ? 

JULIET.     Carmen,  of  course. 

ROMEO.     Neither  am  I. 

JULIET.     Oh  I 

ROMEO.     Seems  like  a  lie  to  you,  doesn't  it? 

JULIET.     Very  much. 

ROMEO.     Well,  it  isn't. 

JULIET  [advancing].  Are  you  ever  coming 
back  to  the  rehearsal? 

ROMEO  [advancing  a  step  toward  her].  Not 
so  long  as  I  can  keep  you  here.  Not  till  your 
nurse  has  called  you  twice  and  thrice  and  four 
times  that.  Not  till  those  Montagues  and  Capu- 

140 


ENTR'  ACTE 


lets  in  there  [gesturing  In  the  direction  of  the  re 
hearsal]  have  all  murdered  each  other  in  their 
wretched  wrangling. 

JULIET  [smiling].     They  bid  fair  to. 

ROMEO.  Your  song  was  wonderful.  It  made 
me  forget  everything  —  that  we  had  ever  quar 
reled  —  that  you  had  changed.  [She  gives  a 
quick  start  and  questioning  look  at  him.'}  It  took 
me  back  to  the  time  when  I  was  happy  —  and 
for  these  few  minutes  afterward  I  am  still  in 
my  dream.  I  cannot  pull  myself  out  of  it.  Do 
you  remember  that  night  in  May? 

JULIET  [breathing  tensely].     Yes. 

ROMEO.  In  your  garden  where  the  locust 
tree  was  all  in  bloom,  and  the  day-time  busy  bees 
had  left  it  to  the  night  and  to  you  and  me.  And 
the  whole  world  was  sweet  with  the  blossoms' 
fragrance. 

JULIET  [smiling].  It  was  the  pomegranate 
tree. 

ROMEO.  And  in  the  branches  late  —  oh,  very 
late  —  we  heard  a  little  bird  wake  and  sing  a  few 
sleepy  notes? 

JULIET  [smiling].     It  was  the  nightingale. 

ROMEO.  And  not  the  bird  of  dawn,  the 
spotted-breast  thrush,  though  love  would  have  me 
stay  until  that  same  brown  thrush  — 

JULIET  [laughing  softly].  You  mean  the 
lark. 

ROMEO.  — would  joyfully  announce  the 
morn,  the  dewy,  sweet,  gray  morn,  that  comes  so 
silently  and  wakes  slowly,  deliciously,  as  does  a 
maid  from  sleep,  and  blushes  into  the  warm  fair 
rose  of  perfect  day. 

141 


SHORT  PLAYS 


JULIET.     Ah,   Romeo! 

ROMEO.  But  whether  it  be  by  the  white  light 
of  the  moon  — 

JULIET.  "  Oh,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  in 
constant  moon!  " 

ROMEO.  —  or  by  the  full  and  rosy  glow  of 
day,  whether  it  be  in  the  warm  scented  night  when 
small  white  moths  go  idly  flying  by  like  little 
quiet  ghosts,  and  our  low  words  are  scarcely  heard 
even  by  each  other,  or  in  the  open  street  and  in 
the  truth  of  noon  {he  extends  his  hand  and  tak 
ing  hers,  falls  on  his  knees  and  bends  over  it~\  I 
—  love  —  you !  {His  voice  is  low  and  slow  and 
ardent.] 

JULIET.     My  Romeo! 

{He  rises  and  keeping  her  hand  stands  gazing 
at  her.~\ 

ROMEO.  Ah,  tell  me  a  little,  give  me  a  little 
joy! 

JULIET.  I  love  thee,  too,  yet,  sweet,  it  was 
the  lark  and  not  the  nightingale,  and  fear  barks 
ever  at  the  loitering  heels  of  love. 

ROMEO.  I  do  not  fear  when  I  can  see  thine 
eyes  —  thine  eyes  that  are  more  bright  than  stars 
in  spring.  Or  feel  thy  hand  —  thy  hand  that  is 
more  soft  than  spring's  night  wind.  Or  hear  thy 
voice  —  thy  voice  that  is  more  mild  than  show 
ers  of  spring.  Or  —  [leaning  closer  to  her~\ 
drink  thy  breath  —  thy  breath  that  is  more  sweet 
than  locust  flowers. 

[For  a  few  moments  they  stand  close,  gazing 
into  each  other's  eyes,  then  suddenly  she 
pulls  away  from  him  as  if  recollecting  her- 
self.} 

142 


ENTR'  ACTE 


JULIET.     We  —  we  have  been  rehearsing! 

ROMEO  [in  an  assumed,  matter-of-fact  tone'}. 
Yes,  acting  our  parts. 

JULIET.     You  were  saying  your  lines. 

ROMEO.     They  are  easy  lines. 

JULIET.  But  you  thought  you  were  in  hard 
lines ! 

ROMEO.  They  become  easy  when  you  pull  the 
strings. 

JULIET.     I  was  acting. 

ROMEO.  But  now  it's  between  the  acts  —  the 
entr'acte.  Besides,  I  wasn't  acting.  I  haven't 
been  all  through. 

JULIET  [slowly  and  in  amazement].  What  — 
what  are  you  saying? 

ROMEO.  Saying?  Saying?  Why,  saying  I 
love  you,  of  course.  Saying  I'm  crazy  about  you 

—  crazy  as  ever.     I  was  too  proud  to  let  you 
know  —  but,  Jove,   what's  the  difference  ?     You 
may  as  well  know.     I'm  so  miserable  I  don't  care 
who  knows. 

JULIET  [catching  her  breath].  You  —  are  — 
so  —  odd! 

ROMEO.  Worse  than  odd.  I'm  a  fool  —  a 
mere  fool. 

JULIET.     Is  it  so  silly  to  care  for  me  ? 

ROMEO.      Pretty  silly  when  you  despise  me. 

JULIET.  But  isn't  unrequited  love  noble? 
[Romeo  opens  his  lips  but  says  nothing,  giving 
her  a  withering  glance. ,]  Besides,  how  do  you 
know  I  don't?  You  haven't  asked  me  for  ages 

—  not  since  we  quarreled. 
ROMEO.     Jove,  but  you're  trying! 

JULIET    [overstrained    and    crying    at    last]. 

143 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Yes,  trying,  trying  as  hard  as  I  can  [in  a  tearful 
voice] ,  but  you  won't  catch  on  1  [Smiling  at  him 
wistfully  through  her  tears.] 

ROMEO.     Do  you  mean — ? 

JULIET.  Yes,  I  do.  That's  just  it!  That 
I'm  a  little  silly  and  crazy  and  everything  about 
you,  too ! 

ROMEO.  You  —  you  —  witch!  [He  extends 
his  arms  to  her  and  takes  a  stride  toward  her. 
She  holds  out  her  arms  to  him,  too.  The  curtain 
falls  just  as  he  reaches  her.] 


144 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN  FOR  A'  THAT. 

CHARACTERS  AS  THEY  APPEAR. 

MRS.  STYMIE. 

MARGARET  BLUFWELL,  M.D. 

NIBLICK  STYMIE,  Mrs.  Stymie's  only  son. 

Miss  IRIS,  a  trained  nurse. 

A  VETERINARIAN. 

[SCENE:  The  sitting-room  in  Mrs.  Sty 
mie's  summer  cottage,  the  Gables,  at  Little 
Neck  Beach.  Little  Neck  Beach  is  a  little  old 
New  England  fishing  village  that  has.  become 
a  fashionable  watering-place  but  still  retains  its 
crusted  characters  and  picturesqueness.  The 
sitting-room  has  wicker  furniture,  including  a 
rocking-chair  and  a  couch,  a  table  is  strewn 
with  books  and  magazines  —  summer  litera 
ture;  the  windows,  half  curtained,  give  a  view  of 
the  sea.  Mrs.  Stymie  enters,  followed  by  Dr. 
Blufwell.  Mrs.  Stymie  has  much  more  money 
than  she  was  born  with.  She  is  dressed  in  the 
extreme  of  the  fashion  but  her  diction  has  not 
kept  pace  with  her  clothes.  Dr.  Blufwell  is 
extremely  tailored  and  wears  eye-glasses."] 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Well,  Doctor,  what  do  you 
think  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  boy?  [With 
much  agitation.'}  You  may  as  well  tell  me,  for 

145 


SHORT  PLAYS 


I've  got  to  know  sooner  or  later  and  I've  steeled 
myself  to  bear  anything.      [She  weeps  aloud.] 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [patting  her  on  the  back  and 
smoothing  her  arm].  In  times  like  this,  Mrs. 
Stymie,  we  must  be  brave.  When  the  situation 
demands  our  womanly  fortitude,  we  must  —  er 
—  we  must  —  ah  —  not  fail.  For  that  is  where 
we  women  show  our  strength.  Men  are  of 
larger  frame  than  we  and  have  more  extensive 
muscular  development  and  unquestionably  they 
are  an  important  factor  in  the  industrial  world, 
but  when  it  is  a  matter  of  intrepidity,  of  high 
heroism,  dear  Mrs.  Stymie,  we  are  undeniably 
their  superiors.  Fortitude  is  a  feminine  virtue. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  And  I  am  doing  my  best  to  be 
fortuitous ! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Think  of  your  dear  son  and 
try  to  be  calm. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  I'm  cam,  can't  you  see 
I'm  cam!  {Wrings  her  hands.]  Tell  me  the 
wust! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
[Mrs.  Stymie  thrusts  her  arm  out  straight  into  the 
Doctor's  face,  daubs  her  eyes  with  her  handker 
chief,  winks  hard  and  gives  other  signs  of  great 
emotional  excitement.] 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [half  to  herself].  Are  you 
sufficiently  prepared?  That  is  the  question. 

MRS.  STYMIE.     Tell  me  the  wust ! 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [keeping  her  hand,  soothing 
and  patting  her].  It  is  my  opinion  after  a  most 
thorough  examination  and  careful  diagnosis  that 
your  son  is  suffering  from  compound  oculi  pu- 
pillae  inflamatis. 

146 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  oh  I  Isn't  that  dreadful! 
It  couldn't  have  been  wus ! 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [profoundly"].  Yes,  indeed, 
yes.  It  might  have  been  ascirides  of  the  ligamen- 
tum  pectimentum,  or  opaque  anterior  otapahlo- 
mia,  or  irido-cyclochroiditis,  or  — 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  Doctor,  don't  go  on  like 
that! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Or  even  this  disease  might 
be  varied  by  distressing  complications.  But  we 
hope  to  be  able  to  control  it  soon  and  hold  it 
in  check.  It  may  take  some  time,  as  the  affec 
tion  seems  to  be  of  some  standing  and  has  prob 
ably  taken  a  firm  grip  of  the  patient  and  may 
prove  stubborn,  but  we  shall  conquer  it.  We 
must  be  strong  and  patient  and  bear  with  the 
poor,  dear  young  man. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  he's  stubborn  enough,  I 
submit,  though  I  don't  know  as  you  are  the  one 
to  say  it.  A  mother  may  say  things  about  her 
own  boy  and  the  same  things  don't  sound  so  very 
well  coming  from  a  young  lady  like  you. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  You  misunderstand  me.  I 
said  the  disease  was  stubborn,  not  your  son. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Well,  I  don't  see  how  that  can' 
be,  I'm  sure.  In  my  experience  it  has  always 
been  the  people  as  has  been  stubborn. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     Suppose  we  don't  discuss  it. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you, 
do  you  feel  as  component  as  a  man  doctor?  You 
see  I  never  had  a  lady  doctor  before,  but  they 
said  you  and  a  horse  doctor  were  the  only  ones 
here,  and  so  I  had  to  have  you  or  him.  Now, 
Doctor,  don't  be  offended,  I  was  just  going  to 

147 


SHORT  PLAYS 


say  that  when  I  heard  you  was  a  home  —  a 
home  — 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  am  of  the  Homoeopathic 
school. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Yes,  when  I  heard  that  you 
was  a  home  pathetic  I  knew  you  was  all  right.  I 
believe  in  home  doctors  every  time.  Do  you  think 
Niblick's  disease  is  contiguous? 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [holds  her  hand].  One  mo 
ment,  please.  We  shall  have  to  have  a  trained 
nurse  and  several  other  commodities  and  I  will 
telephone  for  them  right  away  to  lose  no  time.  I 
can  explain  to  you  afterwards. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Don't  lose  a  precious  moment. 
The  telephone  is  in  that  room,  make  yourself 
perfectly  at  home.  [The  doctor  goes  out  and 
is  heard  distinctly  telephoning  in  the  next  room. 
Mrs.  Stymie  sits  down  and  rocks  wildly  to  and 
fro.] 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Hello,  give  me  West  19. 
Hello.  Is  that  Miss  Iris?  Yes.  Can  you 
come  right  over  to  Mrs.  Stymie's,  the  Gables,  you 
know,  to  take  charge  of  a  case?  Yes.  It  is  a 
very  particular  case.  It  is  compound  oculi  pu- 
pillae  inflamatis.  [Mrs.  Stymie  groans  and 
shakes  her  head  as  she  rocks  violently. ]  And,  by 
the  way,  to  save  time,  will  you  stop  at  the  bar 
ber's  and  order  some  leeches  sent  over? 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Leeches!  Oh,  my  goodness 
gracious ! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  We  shall  have  to  put  them 
on  the  patient's  eyes,  you  know.  Yes.  Of  a 
most  virulent  character.  I  shall  expect  you  im 
mediately,  then.  Good-by.  [The  doctor  comes 

148 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


is  a  very  nice  calling  for  a  lady.  Not  only  their 
loving  and  sympathutic  natures,  but  the  doctor 
says  they  are  so  much  braver  than  men.  And  I 
myself  know  that  they  are  much  more  used  to 
houses  and  take  to  sickness  more  naturally,  sick 
ness  being  their  natural  spere,  as  you  might  say. 
[The  nurse  puts  down  the  pail  on  the  table  and 
sits  down  by  it,  while  Mrs.  Stymie  goes  on  rock 
ing  in  great  undulations  to  and  fro.] 

NIBLICK.  But  I  thought  you  called  in  this 
doctor  because  she  was  the  only  one  in  the  place. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Maybe  I  did,  but  that  was  be 
fore  I  looked  into  the  matter  of  lady  doctors. 

NIBLICK.  You  prefer  them  to  horse  doctors. 
I  believe  you  said  there  were  only  the  two  styles 
in  the  place,  the  lady  and  the  horse,  and  it  came 
to  be  a  choice  between  them,  the  lady  or  the 
horse,  a  sort  of  lady  or  the  tiger  affair.  She 
must  be  very  popular  to  have  to  stay  so  long. 
Well,  popularity  pays  its  price,  which  aphorism, 
by  the  way,  is  double-jointed,  I  mean  it  works 
both  ways.  Popularity  costs  a  huge  sum  in  the 
beginning,  but  after  a  while  it  begins  to  pay  for 
itself.  It  is  what  you  might  call  a  lucrative  in 
vestment,  if  you  don't  mind  the  trouble.  Mother, 
why  don't  you  save  time  by  going  out  to  watch 
for  the  doctor? 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Why,  perhaps  I'd  better. 
[She  goes  out  and  Niblick  immediately  gets  up 
and  goes  over  to  the  nurse] 

NIBLICK.  Won't  you  drop  those  blood-suck 
ers  now  and  kill  them?  That  would  be  a  case  of 
the  biter  bit. 

165 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NURSE.  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  a  bitter  bite 
for  me  when  the  doctor  comes. 

NIBLICK.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  wonder  if  she 
plays  golf?  So  many  doctors  do.  They  have 
taken  up  the  game  recently,  you  know.  And  a 
very  curious  fact  has  been  observed  in  regard  to 
them.  The  surgeons  invariably  slice  their  balls, 
while  the  osteopathists  always  pull  theirs. 

NURSE.     Are  you  very  fond  of  golf? 

NIBLICK.  Well,  rather.  Our  course  at  home 
is  very  hilly  and  some  men  object  to  it  on  that 
account,  but  I  say  everything  has  its  ups  and 
downs  and  the  course  of  true  golf  never  did  run 
smooth.  [The  bell  rings, ,] 

NURSE.     That  must  be  the  doctor  now. 

NIBLICK.  Enter  the  doctor,  commander  of 
leeches!  Now  will  she  [with  elaborate  gestures] 
marshal  her  forces  and  bravely  lead  the  on 
slaught.  Look  out  for  the  fun !  For  the  Lord's 
sake,  now,  don't  you  give  me  away !  Remember 
the  coming  sails  out  on  the  deep  blue  sea  —  my  lit 
tle  boat  is  a  stunner,  certain  sure.  [He  lies  back 
on  the  couch  and  covers  himself  up  with  a  rug  as 
the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Stymie  enter. ] 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [smiling  benignly'].  Well, 
how  are  the  eyes? 

NIBLICK.  Very  painful,  Doctor,  very  pain 
ful.  When  do  you  expect  to  have  them  cured? 
Don't  you  think  it's  'igh  time? 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [patting  him  on  the  shoulder]. 
I  am  greatly  pleased  that  you  are  able  to  joke, 
Mr.  Stymie.  It  augurs  well  for  the  future  and 
proves  that  Miss  Iris  here  has  been  doing  her 
duty  and  preparing  you  for  the  coming  ordeal. 

166 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


NIBICK.  She  has  spent  her  time  most  profita 
bly  in  proving  to  her  own  satisfaction  that  a 
watched  leech  never  crawls.  I  suppose,  Doctor, 
you  are  not  afraid  of  a  leech? 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     I  ?     Certainly  not. 

NIBLICK.  Because  my  mother  here  is.  Most 
women  are,  I  believe,  afraid  of  —  well,  some 
thing  or  other.  By  the  way,  why  is  a  woman  like 
a  woodpecker?  Give  it  up?  Because  she  can 
run  up  a  long  bill.  Why  is  she  different?  Be 
cause  a  woman  will  turn  from  a  worm  while  a 
bird  bolts  —  it.  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  no 
ticed  that  it  is  never  the  worm  who  turns  but  al 
ways  the  woman.  That's  rather  bad  —  isn't  it? 
But  what  better  can  you  expect  from  a  poor  fel 
low  in  agony  like  me.  The  victim  of  leeches 
will  make  foolish  speeches. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [she  has  been  taking  of  her 
gloves  and  otherwise  preparing  for  the  fray~\. 
Nurse,  is  everything  ready? 

NURSE.  Everything,  I  think.  The  leeches 
are  here  in  this  pan  and  seem  to  be  pretty 
lively. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [investigating  them'].  Quite 
so.  I  think  they  will  take  hold  nicely. 

NURSE.  And  the  cream  is  in  this  little  tumb 
ler. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  see.  Do  you  think  you 
have  prepared  the  patient  sufficiently.  [Laying 
her  hand  on  Niblick's  shoulder.']  Do  you  feel 
quite  calm  and  happy? 

NIBLICK.  Well,  I'm  not  sure  I  ever  sized  up 
such  a  situation.  [Stares  and  blinks  hardJ]  I 
don't  think  I  feel  overly  happy,  though  I  felt 

167 


SHORT  PLAYS 


much  worse  when  I  was  beaten  ten  down  and  lost 
the  match  for  the  club. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
[She  feels  his  pulse.~\  Hum!  Well,  I  think  we 
may  go  ahead,  nurse.  His  pulse  is  about  normal 
and  I  think  you  said  his  temperature  had  not  risen 
perceptibly.  I  will  put  on  the  cream.  [She  dips 
her  finger  In  the  cream  and  dabs  it  around 
Niblick's  eye  —  steps  back  and  regards  the  effect 
with  her  head  on  one  side.]  Now,  you  may  ap 
ply  the  leeches.  . 

NURSE.     I  ? 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     Certainly.     Who  else? 

NURSE.     You! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Oh,  no,  indeed.  It  is  the 
nurse's  place  to  apply  the  leeches. 

NURSE.     But  I  —  I  —  I  can't  touch  them. 

MRS.  STYMIE.     No  more  could  I. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     But  who  else  will? 

NURSE.     Why,  you,  of  course. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  But  I  have  to  direct  the  op 
eration.  [Niblick  gives  a  suppressed  snort.~\ 

NURSE.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  never  saw 
any  one  do  it  in  my  life  and  I  don't  know  how. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  But  I  can  easily  tell  you 
how.  Just  take  hold  of  the  tail. 

NURSE  [giving  a  little  scream].  Oh,  I 
couldn't,  really !  Don't  you  understand  ?  I  —  I 
—  I  am  afraid  of  them. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [looking  frightened].  Non 
sense  ! 

NURSE.     I  can't,  I  tell  you. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     But  you  must. 

NURSE.     I  should  let  it  drop. 
168 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


NIBLICK  [giving  an  unearthly  chuckle  and  is 
seen  to  shake],  I  —  I  believe  I've  got  a  chill. 

NURSE.     Doctor,  you'll  have  to. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  No,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all 
for  me  to  do  it.  Isn't  there  some  one  else  we 
can  get? 

NIBLICK  [coughing  violently].  There's  the 
horse-doctor. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  shall  I  send  for  him? 
Just  as  you  say,  Doctor.  I  can  have  Thompson 
go  and  fetch  him  at  once,  though  I  suppose  his 
boots  will  be  very  muddy. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Well,  you  see  it's  rather 
awkward,  because  I  —  I  don't  consult  with  him. 
He's  —  well,  he's  of  a  different  school,  you  know. 
[She  walks  up  and  down.]  Miss  Iris,  won't  you 
—  won't  you  try  to  —  to  —  take  hold  of  one  of 
them  —  with  a  -handkerchief,  you  know. 

NURSE.  Oh,  please,  Doctor,  don't  make  me  I 
They  are  such  horrid  things.  They  squirm  and 
twist  and  act  just  like  snakes  and  they  grow  in 
such  dirty,  oozy,  slimy,  boggy  places.  And  then, 
besides  that  they  do  bite  so.  If  I  took  one  of 
them  by  the  tail  he  would  be  sure  to  fling  his 
head  around  and  hit  me  and  begin  to  bite.  And 
when  they  take  hold,  you  never,  never  can  make 
them  let  go  till  they  drop  off,  when  they  are  quite 
full  and  can't  hold  another  drop.  They  begin  by 
being  quite  thin  and  they  end  by  looking  like 
toy  balloons.  Oh,  I  couldn't  stand  it,  really, 
Doctor. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [coaxinaly].  But  just  try  it, 
won't  you,  please?  [Nervously.] 

169 


NURSE.  It  makes  the  cold  chills  run  up  and 
down  my  back  just  to  think  of  it. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Here  is  my  handkerchief. 
Just  try.  That  one  now. 

NURSE  [trembling  as  she  takes  the  handker 
chief].  I  know  I  can't.  It  makes  the  cold  chills 
run  up  and  down  my  back.  If  it  bites  me  I 
know  I  shall  die.  [Some  time  is  taken  up  while 
she  hesitates  and  selects  her  leech.  She  finally 
takes  hold  of  it  by  the  tail.  It  wriggles,  she 
screams  and  lets  it  fall  back  into  the  pan.]  It 
may  cost  me  my  reputation  but  it  is  utterly  impos 
sible  for  me  to  do  it. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [looking  much  worried.  She 
walks  up  and  down.  Mrs.  Stymie  wrings  her 
hands'].  It  is  a  most  embarrassing  situation.  Of 
course  I  can't  consult  with  a  veterinary,  that  is 
out  of  the  question.  And  yet,  who  else  is  there? 
It  is  very  unfortunate,  Miss  Iris,  that  you  are  so 
—  so  timid.  Won't  you  try  just  once  more? 

NURSE.  Oh,  Doctor,  I  should  just  drop  it 
again. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  do 
it,  though  it  —  it  —  it's  most  unprofessional. 
[Plenty  of  time  is  taken  and  the  scene  is  very  tense 
while  the  doctor  seizes  her  handkerchief  and 
after  many  false  starts  grabs  a  leech,  holds  it 
aloft,  leaning  away  from  it,  and  moves  cautiously 
towards  the  couch.  The  leech  wriggles,  swings 
back,  and  the  doctor  trembles,  jumps,  and  lets  it 
fall  to  the  floor,  shrieking  much  louder  than  the 
nurse.  All  the  women  scream,  Mrs.  Stymie 
mounts  a  chair  and  Niblick  shouts,  then  chokes 

170 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


and  rolls  over  with  his  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  his 
laughter.] 

NURSE.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do?  Do  you 
think  it  will  stay  where  it  is? 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Who  will  pick  it  up?  I  shan't 
stir  till  some  one  does.  Oh,  do  you  suppose  it 
can  climb  a  chair?  [She  looks  out  of  the  win 
dow.']  Oh,  the  ways  of  Providence!  There  is 
that  Horse-Doctor  now! 

NURSE.     Oh,  call  him  in!     Call  him  in  quick! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Per  —  per  —  perhaps  you'd 
better. 

MRS.  STYMIE  [gesticulating  wildly  from  the 
window].  Horse-Doctor!  Horse-Doctor!  Come 
up  here  quick.  Hurry,  Hurry,  HURRY!  He's 
coming!  He's  coming!  He's  running! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  —  I  —  I  am  so  nervous 
to-day  that  my  hand  shook  so  I  couldn't  hold  it. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  I  should  think  it  did  and  a 
pretty  state  we're  in  now.  That  leech  looks  to 
me  like  it  was  moving.  I  do  believe  it  is!  If  it 
starts  to  climb  this  chair  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do !  Oh,  if  that  horse-doctor  doesn't  come  I 
shall  have  nervous  persuasion. 

[The  Horse-Doctor  enters  at  this  climax.  He 
is  a  very  dreadful  person  with  full  red  whis 
kers  and  a  red  face.  He  wears  an  old 
rumpled  silk  hat,  a  violent  red  necktie,  a 
mussed  and  muddy  linen  duster  nearly  to  his 
heels,  and  he  carries  a  carriage  whip.] 

HORSE-DOCTOR.  Well,  is  the  house  on  fire  or 
what  on  earth  is  the  matter?  I  thought  maybe 
somebody  had  been  murdered  or  a  suicide  or  bur 
glars  or  — 

171 


SHORT  PLAYS 


MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  you've  saved  my  life!  If 
you  hadn't  come  — 

NURSE  [stepping  forward] .     You  see  —  we  — 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     You  see,  we  —  we  — 

HORSE-DOCTOR.     Yes,  I  see  you. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  The  leeches,  you  know.  We're 
all  afraid  of  them.  Look  out,  look  out  there, 
you'll  step  on  it !  We  want  to  put  them  on  — 

NIBLICK.     My  eye ! 

HORSE-DOCTOR.  Why,  certainly.  Anything  to 
please  the  ladies.  [He  picks  up  a  leech  from  the 
floor  in  his  fingers  and  advances  with  it  toward 
Niblick.'] 

NIBLICK  [jumping  up  with  great  alacrity]. 
But  not  this  afternoon.  It's  too  late  for  a  gar 
den  party  now.  That  leech  will  have  to  do  with 
just  a  cracker  at  home. 

[CURTAIN.] 


172 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS. 

(AN  OLD-FASHIONED  PARTY  ON  ST.  VALENTINE'S 
NIGHT.) 

[SCENE  :  A  room  at  the  end  of  a  great  hall 
way  in  a  fine  old  Georgian  mansion.  The  en 
trance  is  heavily  curtained  off  and  there  are 
heavy  hangings  at  the  window.  There  is  an 
open  fireplace  with  great  logs  burning  and  two 
silver  candlesticks,  lighted,  stand  on  the  mantel 
piece.  The  furniture  is  Georgian  mahogany 
with  a  rococo  touch  in  some  bits.  It  includes 
a  spinet,  a  little  gilt  chair,  a  spindle-legged 
table,  a  large  mirror  in  a  gilt  frame,  and  a  set 
tee.  The  entrance  is  at  the  center  of  the  back 
of  the  stage,  the  window  at  the  left,  the  fire 
place  at  the  right,  settee  in  front  of  the  fire 
place,  spinet  in  the  left  corner,  gilt  chair  near 
it  in  front  of  the  window.  Everything  is  very 
established,  formal,  decorative,  as  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  Music  is  heard  of  flutes, 
violins,  bass-viols,  and  other  instruments  that 
made  up  the  orchestra  of  that  day.  A  very 
pretty  girl  enters  in  ball-gown  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  with  her  a  young  man.  The  girl 
is  fair  and  flushed,  with  blue  eyes,  and  has 
charm  and  latent  vivacity.  She  is  dressed  in 
corn-color  and  white  satin  with  trimmings  of 
lace  and  pearls,  has  powdered  hair,  high-heeled 


SHORT  PLAYS 


white  satin  slippers  with  buckles,  and  a  pink 
rose  in  her  hair.  The  young  man  is  good-look 
ing,  blond  with  dark  eyes  and  a  certain  smooth 
ness  that  indicates  he  will  be  fatter  when  the 
years  are  added.  He  wears  a  powdered  wig, 
a  light  green  satin  coat,  white  satin  waistcoat, 
old-rose  knee  breeches  of  a  pale  shade,  silk 
stockings  and  buckled  shoes. ~\ 

RALPH.     You're  very  good  to  come  with  me, 
I  was  afraid  you'd  not  agree. 
To  leave  the  dancing  in  the  hall. 

NANCY.     When  one's  invited  to  a  ball, 
One  is  expected,  sure,  to  dance, 
Unless  one  meets  with  the  mischance 
To  sprain  one's  ankle  or  to  fall 
Into  a  dreadful  fainting  fit !  — 
I  hope  I'll  not  — 

RALPH.  Oh,  don't  do  it! 

NANCY.     At  least  I'll  try  not  at  this  ball. 

[They  both  laugh.      The  music  is  heard.] 

RALPH.     But  where  they're  dancing  'tis  so  gay 
I  was  afraid  you'd  wish  to  stay, 

NANCY  [archly].     Perhaps  I  did. 

RALPH.  But  yet  you  came. 

NANCY.     Why,  one  must  always  play  the  game. 
If  you  had  asked  instead,  perchance, 
To  have  the  pleasure  of  a  dance, 
I  would  have  stayed  and  danced  with  you. 
Don't  you  expect  a  maid  to  do 
Exactly  as  you  ask  her  to  ? 

RALPH.     Why,  yes,  I  do,  and  yet  suppose 
A  maid  has  several  different  beaux, 
She  can't  in  truth  content  them  all. 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

NANCY.     She  can,  in  turn,  at  one  short  ball. 
RALPH.     Yes,  but  I'm  talking  now  of  life, 
I'm  asking  you  to  be  my  wife. 
NANCY    [starting].     Good    gracious,    Ralph, 

you  don't  prepare 
A  maid  for  such  a  sudden  scare ! 

[She  moves  over  to  the  spinet  and  sits  down  on 

the  stool.     He  follows  her.'} 
RALPH.     Scare?     Why,  I  thought  you  always 

knew 
It  was  the  end  I  had  in  view. 

NANCY.     I  didn't.     And  yet  if  I  did, 
You  had  your  end  so  safely  hid 
I  wouldn't  ever  dare  to  guess 
The  secret  you  would  fain  repress. 

RALPH.     It  was  no  secret  and  I  vow  — 
NANCY.     You  never  mentioned  love  till  now. 
[Slowly  and  after  a  slight  pause. ~\ 
If  I  bethink  me  it  doth  prove 
You  still  have  never  mentioned  love. 

RALPH.     I    thought   you    knew.     I    had    my 

work, 

I'm  not  a  flirt  and  not  a  shirk, 
One  doesn't  hurry  into  fate. 

[He  draws  up  the  little  gilt  chair  and  sits  down 

in  front  of  her.~\ 

NANCY.     Did  you  not  fear  you  might  be  late  ? 
That  some  one  might  have  got  before 
[Footsteps  are  heard  appro aching. ~\ 
And  entered  ere  you  tried  the  door? 

[Hugh  comes  in  through  the  curtains,  looks 
angry  and  disconcerted,  then  cools  down  and 
bows  most  ceremoniously  and  low  to  them. 
He  has  a  rather  brown  skin  with  color  in  his 

175 


SHORT  PLAYS 


cheeks,  and  has  fascinating  grey-blue  eyes. 
He  is  dressed  in  rather  grey-blue  velvet  coat, 
very  pale  yellow  satin  waistcoat,  lavender 
satin  knee-breeches,  silk  stockings  and 
buckled  shoes.'] 

HUGH.     I'm  sorry,  sir,  your  joy  to  spill 
But  Nancy  promised  this  quadrille 
To  me. 

NANCY.     Of  course,  I'd  quite  forgot. 

[She  rises  and  curtsies  low  to  him.] 
And  that  reminds  me,  have  you  not 
My  fan? 

HUGH.     Your  fan? 

NANCY.  Yes,  I  have  lost 

My  fan,  and  am  quite  tempest-tossed 
Concerning  it,  for,  don't  you  see? 
My  dearest  Grandma  gave  it  me, 
And  it  is  quite  the  handsomest, 
Oh,  yes,  and  best  and  loveliest  — 

HUGH.     Both  fan  and  Grandmama  I  know, 
And  we  had  all  much  better  go, 
If  it's  not  found,  and  quickly  hide 
Our  heads  beneath  the  river's  tide. 

RALPH.     Oh,  may  I  be  of  any  use? 
'My  ignorance  is  my  excuse  — 
You  didn't  tell  me  of  your  — 

NANCY  [reproachfully].     Well, 
You  didn't  give  me  time  to  tell. 
You  see  now  that  I'm  sore  distraught 

[In  the  most  appealing  and  adorable  voice.] 
And  if  you  had  a  little  thought 
For  me,  you'd  both  go  hunt  my  fan ! 

HUGH.     What  man  can  do,  then,  shall  do  man ! 

[He  seems  about  to  go,  then  turns  back  and 
176 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

confronts  her.  She  is  standing  between  the 
two  men,  Hugh  on  her  right,  Ralph  on  her 
left.} 

HUGH.     But,  prithee,  how  will  you  reward 
The  one  who  finds? 

NANCY.  With  my  regard, 

With  gratitude  and  fair  good  will ! 

HUGH.     With     something     else?     The     last 

quadrille? 

[There  is  a  moment's  silence,  all  three  half 
smiling,  the  two  men  on  either  side  of  the 
girl  regarding  her  with  keenest  interest.~\ 
NANCY.     Why,  yes,  I  promise  last  to  dance 
To-night  with  him  who  has  the  chance 
To  find  my  fan.     Now,  au  revoir, 
Be  guided  by  some  lucky  star ! 

[She  sits  down  again  on  the  stool  before  the 

spine  t.~\ 

RALPH  [turning  hastily  to  go  and  bowing  low 
to  Nancy  as  he  is  about  to  pass  through  the 
curtains}. 
Don't  fret,  for  we  will  find  the  fan. 

HUGH  [amused  and  mocking}. 
I  almost  think  you  are  the  man ! 
Then  go  and  hunt — I'll  take  the  bird 
That's  in  the  bush.     For  hope  deferred 
Did  ever  make  me  sick.     So  here 
I'll  stay  with  Nan.     It  would  be  queer 
For  us  to  leave  her  quite  alone  — 
This  is  my  time,  the  only  one 
Perhaps  I'll  have.     Give  you  good  luck! 
I  like  you,  Ralph,  I  like  your  pluck. 

[Hugh  sits  down  on  the  little  gilt  chair  and 
there  is  nothing  left  for  Ralph  to  do  but  go. 
177 


SHORT  PLAYS 


He    smiles    hopefully    and    reassuringly    at 
Nancy.'} 

RALPH.     Honor's  the  same  in  love  and  war, 
I'll  bring  the  fan,  then  au  revoir! 

[Ralph  bows  himself  out  through  the  curtains. 
Nancy  rises  and  goes  over  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room.     She  seems  disturbed  and  to 
try  to  evade  Hugh,  who  follows  watching 
her.     He  goes  to  the  settee  and  stands  be 
hind  it,  making  a  gesture  of  offering  her  a 
•  seat.     She  stands  looking  into  the  fire.] 
HUGH.     Won't  you  be  seated,  fair  Nanette? 
NANCY.     My  name  is  Nancy. 
HUGH.  But  Nanette 

Is  used  for  rhyming  with  coquette. 

NANCY.     Perhaps  you  are.  the  one  to  know, 
They  say  you're  such  a  heartless  beau. 

HUGH.     I  have  been  ever  since  I  met 
The  pretty  maid  I  call  Nanette. 
She'll  neither  give  me  back  my  heart, 
Nor  give  me  hers  —  such  is  her  art 
Of  coquetry.     Won't  you  sit  down? 

[Nancy  sits  down   on   one  end  of  the  settee 
farthest  from  where  he  stands  with  his  hand 
resting  on  the  back  of  it.] 
HUGH.     You  have  on  such  a  lovely  gown, 
It  doth  become  you  e'en  as  gold  [gallantly] 
Sets  off  the  pearl  it  doth  enfold. 

NANCY.     It  seems  you  haven't  lost  your  wit 

[smiling] , 
Nor  tongue  to  help  make  use  of  it. 

HUGH.     You  think  my  wit's  a  thing  apart 
From  my  poor,  luckless,  lackless  heart? 

178 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

[He  comes  round  to  the  front  of  the  settee  and 
sits  down  on  it  as  far  as  possible  from  her. 
Then  he  leans  over  and  plays  with  the  lace 
trimming  on  her  sleeve.~\ 

HUGH.     You  think  a  man  won't  lose  his  mind 
Because  he  loves  a  maid  unkind? 

NANCY.     I  didn't  quite  say  that  —  and  yet  — 
[As  if  meditating  something  to  prove  her  point 

and  try  him.~\ 
Why  don't  you  make  a  chansonnette? 

HUGH.  For  dear  Nanette?  The  fair  co 
quette  ? 

I'll  take  your  dare  — some  kind  of  rhyme 
I'll  formulate,  while  you  mark  time. 

[They  are  both  silent  a  few  moments,  she 
watching  him  with  a  quizzical  smile,  he  with 
brows  knitted,  looking  hard  at  the  floor.'} 

HUGH.     She  lost  her  fan,  did  sweet  Nanette, 
It  wasn't  quite  within  her  plan, 
For  while  she  played  at  the  coquette, 
She  lost  her  fan. 

Mayhap  'twas  left  in  her  sedan, 

Or  maybe  in  the  minuet 

'Twas  stolen  by  some  naughty  man. 

Just  where  it  is  I  may  not  bet, 
But  nothing's  plainer  to  me  than 
While  trying  some  one's  heart  to  net 
She  lost  her  fan. 

NANCY.     It  seems  you  haven't  lost  your  head! 
HUGH.     I'd  rather  have  a  heart  instead. 
179 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NANCY.     You  wouldn't  be  so  nice,  so  gay. 

HUGH.     I'd  go  contented  on  my  way 
Nor  hang  about  and  linger  so 
To  hear  a  maiden's  "  Yes  "  or  "  No." 
You  know  it  is  the  day  divine 
That's  sacred  to  St.  Valentine, 
The  day  a  lover  must  confess, 
The  day  a  maiden  should  say  "  Yes," 
The  day  the  little  birds  all  mate 
And  bow  to  Love  and  nod  to  Fate. 

NANCY  [hastily  interrupting  hini\. 
And  yet  the  day  of  all  the  year 
Is  likeliest  to  be  most  drear. 
I'm  sure  the  robins  have  chilblains 
Upon  their  little  toes.     The  lanes 
Are  bleak  and  covered  o'er  with  snow, 
And  listen  —  how  the  east  winds  blow ! 
Perchance  there'll  be  a  dreadful  storm. 

HUGH  [leaning  to  her~\ 

So  much  the  more  should  hearts  keep  warm. 
Ah,  dearest,  let  me  hear  you  say 
The  word  I  long  for  day  by  day, 
The  little  word  for  which  I  wait! 

NANCY  [nervously].     It  must  be  getting  very 

late! 
You  haven't  tried  to  find  my  fan. 

HUGH.     Why   should   I,   since   Ralph   is   the 
man? 

NANCY.     He  isn't.     And  the  last  quadrille 
Is  yours,  if  you  the  terms  fulfil. 

HUGH.     If  I  produce  the  fan,  you'll  give 
The  dance  to  me  —  now,  as  I  live, 
If  with  the  dance  your  heart's  thrown  in, 
I'll  find  the  fan  — I'll  die  or  win! 

180 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


is  a  very  nice  calling  for  a  lady.  Not  only  their 
loving  and  sympathutic  natures,  but  the  doctor 
says  they  are  so  much  braver  than  men.  And  I 
myself  know  that  they  are  much  more  used  to 
houses  and  take  to  sickness  more  naturally,  sick 
ness  being  their  natural  spere,  as  you  might  say. 
[The  nurse  puts  down  the  pail  on  the  table  and 
sits  down  by  it,  while  Mrs.  Stymie  goes  on  rock 
ing  in  great  undulations  to  and  /TO.] 

NIBLICK.  But  I  thought  you  called  in  this 
doctor  because  she  was  the  only  one  in  the  place. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Maybe  I  did,  but  that  was  be 
fore  I  looked  into  the  matter  of  lady  doctors. 

NIBLICK.  You  prefer  them  to  horse  doctors. 
I  believe  you  said  there  were  only  the  two  styles 
in  the  place,  the  lady  and  the  horse,  and  it  came 
to  be  a  choice  between  them,  the  lady  or  the 
horse,  a  sort  of  lady  or  the  tiger  affair.  She 
must  be  very  popular  to  have  to  stay  so  long. 
Well,  popularity  pays  its  price,  which  aphorism, 
by  the  way,  is  double-jointed,  I  mean  it  works 
both  ways.  Popularity  costs  a  huge  sum  in  the 
beginning,  but  after  a  while  it  begins  to  pay  for 
itself.  It  is  what  you  might  call  a  lucrative  in 
vestment,  if  you  don't  mind  the  trouble.  Mother, 
why  don't  you  save  time  by  going  out  to  watch 
for  the  doctor? 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Why,  perhaps  I'd  better. 
[She  goes  out  and  Niblick  immediately  gets  up 
and  goes  over  to  the  nurse."} 

NIBLICK.  Won't  you  drop  those  blood-suck 
ers  now  and  kill  them?  That  would  be  a  case  of 
the  biter  bit. 

165 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NURSE.  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  a  bitter  bite 
for  me  when  the  doctor  comes. 

NIBLICK.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  wonder  if  she 
plays  golf?  So  many  doctors  do.  They  have 
taken  up  the  game  recently,  you  know.  And  a 
very  curious  fact  has  been  observed  in  regard  to 
them.  The  surgeons  invariably  slice  their  balls, 
while  the  osteopathists  always  pull  theirs. 

NURSE.     Are  you  very  fond  of  golf? 

NIBLICK.  Well,  rather.  Our  course  at  home 
is  very  hilly  and  some  men  object  to  it  on  that 
account,  but  I  say  everything  has  its  ups  and 
downs  and  the  course  of  true  golf  never  did  run 
smooth.  [  The  bell  rings.'} 

NURSE.     That  must  be  the  doctor  now. 

NIBLICK.  Enter  the  doctor,  commander  of 
leeches !  Now  will  she  [with  elaborate  gestures] 
marshal  her  forces  and  bravely  lead  the  on 
slaught.  Look  out  for  the  fun  I  For  the  Lord's 
sake,  now,  don't  you  give  me  away !  Remember 
the  coming  sails  out  on  the  deep  blue  sea  —  my  lit 
tle  boat  is  a  stunner,  certain  sure.  [He  lies  back 
on  the  couch  and  covers  himself  up  with  a  rug  as 
the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Stymie  enter.'] 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [smiling  benignly].  Well, 
how  are  the  eyes? 

NIBLICK.  Very  painful,  Doctor,  very  pain 
ful.  When  do  you  expect  to  have  them  cured? 
Don't  you  think  it's  'igh  time? 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [patting  him  on  the  shoulder]. 
I  am  greatly  pleased  that  you  are  able  to  joke, 
Mr.  Stymie.  It  augurs  well  for  the  future  and 
proves  that  Miss  Iris  here  has  been  doing  her 
duty  and  preparing  you  for  the  coming  ordeal. 

166 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


NIBICK.  She  has  spent  her  time  most  profita 
bly  in  proving  to  her  own  satisfaction  that  a 
watched  leech  never  crawls.  I  suppose,  Doctor, 
you  are  not  afraid  of  a  leech? 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     I  ?     Certainly  not. 

NIBLICK.  Because  my  mother  here  is.  Most 
women  are,  I  believe,  afraid  of  —  well,  some 
thing  or  other.  By  the  way,  why  is  a  woman  like 
a  woodpecker?  Give  it  up?  Because  she  can 
run  up  a  long  bill.  Why  is  she  different?  Be 
cause  a  woman  will  turn  from  a  worm  while  a 
bird  bolts  —  it.  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  no 
ticed  that  it  is  never  the  worm  who  turns  but  al 
ways  the  woman.  That's  rather  bad  —  isn't  it? 
But  what  better  can  you  expect  from  a  poor  fel 
low  in  agony  like  me.  The  victim  of  leeches 
will  make  foolish  speeches. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [she  has  been  taking  off  her 
gloves  and  otherwise  preparing  for  the  fray]. 
Nurse,  is  everything  ready? 

NURSE.  Everything,  I  think.  The  leeches 
are  here  in  this  pan  and  seem  to  be  pretty 
lively. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [investigating  them].  Quite 
so.  I  think  they  will  take  hold  nicely. 

NURSE.  And  the  cream  is  in  this  little  tumb 
ler. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  see.  Do  you  think  you 
have  prepared  the  patient  sufficiently.  [Laying 
her  hand  on  Niblick's  shoulder.]  Do  you  feel 
quite  calm  and  happy? 

NIBLICK.  Well,  I'm  not  sure  I  ever  sized  up 
such  a  situation.  [Stares  and  blinks  hard.]  I 
don't  think  I  feel  overly  happy,  though  I  felt 

167 


SHORT  PLAYS 


much  worse  when  I  was  beaten  ten  down  and  lost 
the  match  for  the  club. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
[She  feels  his  pulse.']  Hum!  Well,  I  think  we 
may  go  ahead,  nurse.  His  pulse  is  about  normal 
and  I  think  you  said  his  temperature  had  not  risen 
perceptibly.  I  will  put  on  the  cream.  [She  dips 
her  finger  in  the  cream  and  dabs  it  around 
Niblick's  eye  —  steps  back  and  regards  the  effect 
with  her  head  on  one  side.~\  Now,  you  may  ap 
ply  the  leeches. 

NURSE.     I  ? 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     Certainly.     Who  else? 

NURSE.     You! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Oh,  no,  indeed.  It  is  the 
nurse's  place  to  apply  the  leeches. 

NURSE.     But  I  —  I  —  I  can't  touch  them. 

MRS.  STYMIE.     No  more  could  I. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     But  who  else  will? 

NURSE.     Why,  you,  of  course. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  But  I  have  to  direct  the  op 
eration.  [Niblick  gives  a  suppressed  snort.~\ 

NURSE.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  never  saw 
any  one  do  it  in  my  life  and  I  don't  know  how. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  But  I  can  easily  tell  you 
how.  Just  take  hold  of  the  tail. 

NURSE  [giving  a  little  scream].  Oh,  I 
couldn't,  really!  Don't  you  understand?  I  —  I 
—  I  am  afraid  of  them. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [looking  frightened'}.  Non 
sense  1 

NURSE.     I  can't,  I  tell  you. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     But  you  must. 

NURSE.     I  should  let  it  drop. 
168 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


NIBLICK  [giving  an  unearthly  chuckle  and  is 
seen  to  shake] .  I  —  I  believe  I've  got  a  chill. 

NURSE.     Doctor,  you'll  have  to. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  No,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all 
for  me  to  do  it.  Isn't  there  some  one  else  we 
can  get? 

NIBLICK  [coughing  violently'].  There's  the 
horse-doctor. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  shall  I  send  for  him? 
Just  as  you  say,  Doctor.  I  can  have  Thompson 
go  and  fetch  him  at  once,  though  I  suppose  his 
boots  will  be  very  muddy. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Well,  you  see  it's  rather 
awkward,  because  I  —  I  don't  consult  with  him. 
He's  —  well,  he's  of  a  different  school,  you  know. 
[She  walks  up  and  down.~\  Miss  Iris,  won't  you 
—  won't  you  try  to  —  to  —  take  hold  of  one  of 
them  —  with  a  handkerchief,  you  know. 

NURSE.  Oh,  please,  Doctor,  don't  make  me! 
They  are  such  horrid  things.  They  squirm  and 
twist  and  act  just  like  snakes  and  they  grow  in 
such  dirty,  oozy,  slimy,  boggy  places.  And  then, 
besides  that  they  do  bite  so.  If  I  took  one  of 
them  by  the  tail  he  would  be  sure  to  fling  his 
head  around  and  hit  me  and  begin  to  bite.  And 
when  they  take  hold,  you  never,  never  can  make 
them  let  go  till  they  drop  off,  when  they  are  quite 
full  and  can't  hold  another  drop.  They  begin  by 
being  quite  thin  and  they  end  by  looking  like 
toy  balloons.  Oh,  I  couldn't  stand  it,  really, 
Doctor. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [coaxingly].  But  just  try  it, 
won't  you,  please?  [Nervously.'] 

169 


NURSE.  It  makes  the  cold  chills  run  up  and 
down  my  back  just  to  think  of  it. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Here  is  my  handkerchief. 
Just  try.  That  one  now. 

NURSE  [trembling  as  she  takes  the  handker 
chief].  I  know  I  can't.  It  makes  the  cold  chills 
run  up  and  down  my  back.  If  it  bites  me  I 
know  I  shall  die.  [Some  time  is  taken  up  while 
she  hesitates  and  selects  her  leech.  She  finally 
takes  hold  of  it  by  the  tail.  It  wriggles,  she 
screams  and  lets  it  fall  back  into  the  pan]  It 
may  cost  me  my  reputation  but  it  is  utterly  impos 
sible  for  me  to  do  it. 

DR.  BLUFWELL  [looking  much  worried.  She 
walks  up  and  down.  Mrs.  Stymie  wrings  her 
hands].  It  is  a  most  embarrassing  situation.  Of 
course  I  can't  consult  with  a  veterinary,  that  is 
out  of  the  question.  And  yet,  who  else  is  there  ? 
It  is  very  unfortunate,  Miss  Iris,  that  you  are  so 
—  so  timid.  Won't  you  try  just  once  more? 

NURSE.  Oh,  Doctor,  I  should  just  drop  it 
again. 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  do 
it,  though  it  —  it  —  it's  most  unprofessional. 
[Plenty  of  time  is  taken  and  the  scene  is  very  tense 
while  the  doctor  seizes  her  handkerchief  and 
after  many  false  starts  grabs  a  leech,  holds  it 
aloft,  leaning  away  from  it,  and  moves  cautiously 
towards  the  couch.  The  leech  wriggles,  swings 
back,  and  the  doctor  trembles,  jumps,  and  lets  it 
fall  to  the  floor,  shrieking  much  louder  than  the 
nurse.  All  the  women  scream,  Mrs.  Stymie 
mounts  a  chair  and  Niblick  shouts,  then  chokes 

170 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WOMAN 


and  rolls  over  with  his  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  his 
laughter.] 

NURSE.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do?  Do  you 
think  it  will  stay  where  it  is? 

MRS.  STYMIE.  Who  will  pick  it  up?  I  shan't 
stir  till  some  one  does.  Oh,  do  you  suppose  it 
can  climb  a  chair?  [She  looks  out  of  the  win 
dow.']  Oh,  the  ways  of  Providence  I  There  is 
that  Horse-Doctor  now! 

NURSE.     Oh,  call  him  in!     Call  him  in  quick! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  Per  —  per  —  perhaps  you'd 
better. 

MRS.  STYMIE  '[gesticulating  wildly  from  the 
window].  Horse-Doctor!  Horse-Doctor!  Come 
up  here  quick.  Hurry,  Hurry,  HURRY!  He's 
coming!  He's  coming!  He's  running! 

DR.  BLUFWELL.  I  —  I  —  I  am  so  nervous 
to-day  that  my  hand  shook  so  I  couldn't  hold  it. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  I  should  think  it  did  and  a 
pretty  state  we're  in  now.  That  leech  looks  to 
me  like  it  was  moving.  I  do  believe  it  is!  If  it 
starts  to  climb  this  chair  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do!  Oh,  if  that  horse-doctor  doesn't  come  I 
shall  have  nervous  persuasion. 

[The  Horse-Doctor  enters  at  this  climax.  He 
is  a  very  dreadful  person  with  full  red  whis 
kers  and  a  red  face.  He  wears  an  old 
rumpled  silk  hat,  a  violent  red  necktie,  a 
mussed  and  muddy  linen  duster  nearly  to  his 
heels,  and  he  carries  a  carriage  whip.] 

HORSE-DOCTOR.  Well,  is  the  house  on  fire  or 
what  on  earth  is  the  matter?  I  thought  maybe 
somebody  had  been  murdered  or  a  suicide  or  bur 
glars  or  — 

171 


SHORT  PLAYS 


MRS.  STYMIE.  Oh,  you've  saved  my  life!  If 
you  hadn't  come  — 

NURSE  [stepping  forward} .     You  see  —  we  — 

DR.  BLUFWELL.     You  see,  we  —  we  — 

HORSE-DOCTOR.     Yes,  I  see  you. 

MRS.  STYMIE.  The  leeches,  you  know.  We're 
all  afraid  of  them.  Look  out,  look  out  there, 
you'll  step  on  it !  We  want  to  put  them  on  — 

NIBLICK.     My  eye ! 

HORSE-DOCTOR.  Why,  certainly.  Anything  to 
please  the  ladies.  [He  picks  up  a  leech  from  the 
floor  in  his  fingers  and  advances  with  it  toward 
Niblick.} 

NIBLICK  [jumping  up  with  great  alacrity}. 
But  not  this  afternoon.  It's  too  late  for  a  gar 
den  party  now.  That  leech  will  have  to  do  with 
just  a  cracker  at  home. 

[CURTAIN.] 


172 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS. 

(AN  OLD-FASHIONED  PARTY  ON  ST.  VALENTINE'S 
NIGHT.) 

[SCENE  :  A  room  at  the  end  of  a  great  hall 
way  in  a  fine  old  Georgian  mansion.  The  en 
trance  is  heavily  curtained  off  and  there  are 
heavy  hangings  at  the  window.  There  is  an 
open  fireplace  with  great  logs  burning  and  two 
silver  candlesticks,  lighted,  stand  on  the  mantel 
piece.  The  furniture  is  Georgian  mahogany 
with  a  rococo  touch  in  some  bits.  It  includes 
a  spinet,  a  little  gilt  chair,  a  spindle-legged 
table,  a  large  mirror  in  a  gilt  frame,  and  a  set 
tee.  The  entrance  is  at  the  center  of  the  back 
of  the  stage,  the  window  at  the  left,  the  fire 
place  at  the  right,  settee  in  front  of  the  fire 
place,  spinet  in  the  left  corner,  gilt  chair  near 
it  in  front  of  the  window.  Everything  is  very 
established,  formal,  decorative,  as  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  Music  is  heard  of  flutes, 
violins,  bass-viols,  and  other  instruments  that 
made  up  the  orchestra  of  that  day.  A  very 
pretty  girl  enters  in  ball-gown  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  with  her  a  young  man.  The  girl 
is  fair  and  flushed,  with  blue  eyes,  and  has 
charm  and  latent  vivacity.  She  is  dressed  in 
corn-color  and  white  satin  with  trimmings  of 
lace  and  pearls,  has  powdered  hair,  high-heeled 
173 


SHORT  PLAYS 


white  satin  slippers  with  buckles,  and  a  pink 
rose  in  her  hair.  The  young  man  is  good-look 
ing,  blond  with  dark  eyes  and  a  certain  smooth 
ness  that  indicates  he  will  be  fatter  when  the 
years  are  added.  He  wears  a  powdered  wig, 
a  light  green  satin  coat,  white  satin  waistcoat, 
old-rose  knee  breeches  of  a  pale  shade,  silk 
stockings  and  buckled  shoes.] 

RALPH.     You're  very  good  to  come  with  me, 
I  was  afraid  you'd  not  agree. 
To  leave  the  dancing  in  the  hall. 

NANCY.     When  one's  invited  to  a  ball, 
One  is  expected,  sure,  to  dance, 
Unless  one  meets  with  the  mischance 
To  sprain  one's  ankle  or  to  fall 
Into  a  dreadful  fainting  fit !  — 
I  hope  I'll  not  — 

RALPH.  Oh,  don't  do  it! 

NANCY.     At  least  I'll  try  not  at  this  ball. 

[They  both  laugh.      The  music  is  heard.] 

RALPH.     But  where  they're  dancing  'tis  so  gay 
I  was  afraid  you'd  wish  to  stay, 

NANCY  [archly].     Perhaps  I  did. 

RALPH.  But  yet  you  came. 

NANCY.     Why,  one  must  always  play  the  game. 
If  you  had  asked  instead,  perchance, 
To  have  the  pleasure  of  a  dance, 
I  would  have  stayed  and  danced  with  you. 
Don't  you  expect  a  maid  to  do 
Exactly  as  you  ask  her  to  ? 

RALPH.     Why,  yes,  I  do,  and  yet  suppose 
A  maid  has  several  different  beaux, 
She  can't  in  truth  content  them  all. 

174 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

NANCY.     She  can,  in  turn,  at  one  short  ball. 
RALPH.     Yes,  but  I'm  talking  now  of  life, 
I'm  asking  you  to  be  my  wife. 
NANCY    [starting].     Good    gracious,    Ralph, 

you  don't  prepare 
A  maid  for  such  a  sudden  scare ! 

[She  moves  over  to  the  spinet  and  sits  down  on 

the  stool.     He  follows  her.] 
RALPH.     Scare?     Why,  I  thought  you  always 

knew 
It  was  the  end  I  had  in  view. 

NANCY.     I  didn't.     And  yet  if  I  did, 
You  had  your  end  so  safely  hid 
I  wouldn't  ever  dare  to  guess 
The  secret  you  would  fain  repress. 

RALPH.     It  was  no  secret  and  I  vow  — 
NANCY.     You  never  mentioned  love  till  now. 
[Slowly  and  after  a  slight  pause.] 
If  I  bethink  me  it  doth  prove 
You  still  have  never  mentioned  love. 

RALPH.     I    thought   you    knew.     I    had    my 

work, 

I'm  not  a  flirt  and  not  a  shirk, 
One  doesn't  hurry  into  fate. 

[He  draws  up  the  little  gilt  chair  and  sits  down 

in  front  of  her] 

NANCY.     Did  you  not  fear  you  might  be  late? 
That  some  one  might  have  got  before 
[Footsteps  are  heard  approaching.] 
And  entered  ere  you  tried  the  door? 

[Hugh  comes  in  through  the  curtains,  looks 
angry  and  disconcerted,  then  cools  down  and 
bows  most  ceremoniously  and  low  to  them. 
He  has  a  rather  brown  skin  with  color  in  his 

175 


SHORT  PLAYS 


cheeks,  and  has  fascinating  grey-blue  eyes. 
He  is  dressed  in  rather  grey-blue  velvet  coat, 
very  pale  yellow  satin  waistcoat,  lavender 
satin  knee-breecfaes,  silk  stockings  and 
buckled  shoes.~\ 

HUGH.     I'm  sorry,  sir,  your  joy  to  spill 
But  Nancy  promised  this  quadrille 
To  me. 

NANCY.     Of  course,  I'd  quite  forgot. 

[She  rises  and  curtsies  low  to  him.'} 
And  that  reminds  me,  have  you  not 
My  fan? 

HUGH.     Your  fan? 

NANCY.  Yes,  I  have  lost 

My  fan,  and  am  quite  tempest-tossed 
Concerning  it,  for,  don't  you  see? 
My  dearest  Grandma  gave  it  me, 
And  it  is  quite  the  handsomest, 
Oh,  yes,  and  best  and  loveliest  — 

HUGH.     Both  fan  and  Grandmama  I  know, 
And  we  had  all  much  better  go, 
If  it's  not  found,  and  quickly  hide 
Our  heads  beneath  the  river's  tide. 

RALPH.     Oh,  may  I  be  of  any  use? 
My  ignorance  is  my  excuse  — 
You  didn't  tell  me  of  your  — 

NANCY  [reproachfully].     Well, 
You  didn't  give  me  time  to  tell. 
You  see  now  that  I'm  sore  distraught 

[In  the  most  appealing  and  adorable  voice.] 
And  if  you  had  a  little  thought 
For  me,  you'd  both  go  hunt  my  fan ! 

HUGH.     What  man  can  do,  then,  shall  do  man ! 

[He  seems  about  to  go,  then  turns  back  and 
176 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

confronts  her.  She  is  standing  between  the 
two  men,  Hugh  on  her  right,  Ralph  on  her 
left.-] 

HUGH.     But,  prithee,  how  will  you  reward 
The  one  who  finds? 

NANCY.  With  my  regard, 

With  gratitude  and  fair  good  will ! 

HUGH.     With     something     else?     The     last 

quadrille  ? 

[There  is  a  moment's  silence,  all  three  half 
smiling,  the  two  men  on  either  side  of  the 
girl  regarding  her  with  keenest  interest.'} 
NANCY.     Why,  yes,  I  promise  last  to  dance 
To-night  with  him  who  has  the  chance 
To  find  my  fan.     Now,  au  revoir, 
Be  guided  by  some  lucky  star! 

[She  sits  down  again  on  the  stool  before  the 

spine  t.~\ 

RALPH  [turning  hastily  to  go  and  bowing  low 
to  Nancy  as  he  is  about  to  pass  through  the 
curtains~\. 
Don't  fret,  for  we  will  find  the  fan. 

HUGH  [amused  and  mocking']. 
I  almost  think  you  are  the  man  1 
Then  go  and  hunt  —  I'll  take  the  bird 
That's  in  the  bush.     For  hope  deferred 
Did  ever  make  me  sick.     So  here 
I'll  stay  with  Nan.     It  would  be  queer 
For  us  to  leave  her  quite  alone  — 
This  is  my  time,  the  only  one 
Perhaps  I'll  have.     Give  you  good  luck! 
I  like  you,  Ralph,  I  like  your  pluck. 

[Hugh  sits  down  on  the  little  gilt  chair  and 
there  is  nothing  left  for  Ralph  to  do  but  go. 
177 


SHORT  PLAYS 


He    smiles    hopefully    and    reassuringly    at 
Nancy. ~] 

RALPH.     Honor's  the  same  in  love  and  war, 
I'll  bring  the  fan,  then  au  revoir! 

[Ralph  bows  himself  out  through  the  curtains. 
Nancy  rises  and  goes  over  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room.     She  seems  disturbed  and  to 
try  to  evade  Hugh,  who  follows  watching 
her.     He  goes  to  the  settee  and  stands  be 
hind  it,  making  a  gesture  of  offering  her  a 
seat.     She  stands  looking  into  the  fire.] 
HUGH.     Won't  you  be  seated,  fair  Nanette  ? 
NANCY.     My  name  is  Nancy. 
HUGH.  But  Nanette 

Is  used  for  rhyming  with  coquette. 

NANCY.     Perhaps  you  are.  the  one  to  know, 
They  say  you're  such  a  heartless  beau. 

HUGH.     I  have  been  ever  since  I  met 
The  pretty  maid  I  call  Nanette. 
She'll  neither  give  me  back  my  heart, 
Nor  give  me  hers  —  such  is  her  art 
Of  coquetry.     Won't  you  sit  down? 

[Nancy  sits  down   on  one  end  of  the  settee 
farthest  from  where  he  stands  with  his  hand 
resting  on  the  back  of  itJ] 
HUGH.     You  have  on  such  a  lovely  gown, 
It  doth  become  you  e'en  as  gold  [gallantly] 
Sets  off  the  pearl  it  doth  enfold. 

NANCY.     It  seems  you  haven't  lost  your  wit 

[smiling'} , 
Nor  tongue  to  help  make  use  of  it. 

HUGH.     You  think  my  wit's  a  thing  apart 
From  my  poor,  luckless,  lackless  heart? 

178 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

\He  comes  round  to  the  front  of  the  settee  and 
sits  down  on  it  as  far  as  possible  from  her. 
Then  he  leans  over  and  plays  with  the  lace 
trimming  on  her  sleeve.] 

HUGH.     You  think  a  man  won't  lose  his  mind 
Because  he  loves  a  maid  unkind? 

NANCY.     I  didn't  quite  say  that  —  and  yet  — 
[As  if  meditating  something  to  prove  her  point 

and  try  him.~\ 
Why  don't  you  make  a  chansonnette? 

HUGH.  For  dear  Nanette?  The  fair  co 
quette  ? 

I'll  take  your  dare  — some  kind  of  rhyme 
I'll  formulate,  while  you  mark  time. 

[They  are  both  silent  a  few  moments,  she 
watching  him  with  a  quizzical  smile,  he  with 
brows  knitted,  looking  hard  at  the  floor.'} 

HUGH.     She  lost  her  fan,  did  sweet  Nanette, 
It  wasn't  quite  within  her  plan, 
For  while  she  played  at  the  coquette, 
She  lost  her  fan. 

Mayhap  'twas  left  in  her  sedan, 

Or  maybe  in  the  minuet 

'Twas  stolen  by  some  naughty  man. 

Just  where  it  is  I  may  not  bet, 
But  nothing's  plainer  to  me  than 
While  trying  some  one's  heart  to  net 
She  lost  her  fan. 

NANCY.     It  seems  you  haven't  lost  your  head! 
HUGH.     I'd  rather  have  a  heart  instead. 
179 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NANCY.     You  wouldn't  be  so  nice,  so  gay. 

HUGH.     I'd  go  contented  on  my  way 
Nor  hang  about  and  linger  so 
To  hear  a  maiden's  "  Yes  ]'  or  "  No." 
You  know  it  is  the  day  divine 
That's  sacred  to  St.  Valentine, 
The  day  a  lover  must  confess, 
The  day  a  maiden  should  say  "  Yes," 
The  day  the  little  birds  all  mate 
And  bow  to  Love  and  nod  to  Fate. 

NANCY  [hastily  Interrupting  him}. 
And  yet  the  day  of  all  the  year 
Is  likeliest  to  be  most  drear. 
I'm  sure  the  robins  have  chilblains 
Upon  their  little  toes.     The  lanes 
Are  bleak  and  covered  o'er  with  snow, 
And  listen  —  how  the  east  winds  blow ! 
Perchance  there'll  be  a  dreadful  storm. 

HUGH  [leaning  to  her~\ 

So  much  the  more  should  hearts  keep  warm. 
Ah,  dearest,  let  me  hear  you  say 
The  word  I  long  for  day  by  day, 
The  little  word  for  which  I  wait! 

NANCY  [nervously"].     It  must  be  getting  very 

late! 
You  haven't  tried  to  find  my  fan. 

HUGH.     Why   should   I,   since   Ralph   is   the 
man? 

NANCY.     He  isn't.     And  the  last  quadrille 
Is  yours,  if  you  the  terms  fulfil. 

HUGH.     If  I  produce  the  fan,  you'll  give 
The  dance  to  me  —  now,  as  I  live, 
If  with  the  dance  your  heart's  thrown  in, 
I'll  find  the  fan  —  I'll  die  or  win! 

180 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

NANCY.     You're  willing  thus  to  trust  to  fate? 
[Footsteps  are  heard  coming  down  the  hall.~\ 
HUGH   [entreatingly~\.     Say  "Yes"  before  it 

is  too  late ! 
You'll  give  your  heart  with  the  last  dance? 

[Nancy    is    very    nervous    and    excited.     She 
looks  at  Hugh  with  great  earnestness  and 
speaks  almost  in  a  whisper. ~\ 
NANCY.     Yes!     Fate   for  fend  me  from  mis 
chance  ! 

[Enter  Ralph  through  the  curtains.'} 
HUGH.     Ah,  Ralph,  you  wear  a  cheerful  smile, 
You've  found  it? 

RALPH.  No,  I'll  not  beguile 

You  [speaking  to  Nancy~\  into  hopes,  for  every 
where 
I've  searched  with  diligence  and  care. 

[Nancy  sighs  and  smiles  relief'.  The  situation 
is  beginning  to  assume  a  serious  aspect  to 
her.'] 

NANCY.     It  surely  isn't  right  at  all 
To  spoil  the  pleasure  of  this  ball 
For  you,  and  we'll  abandon  now 
Search  for  the  fan. 

HUGH.  Oh,  no,  I  vow ! 

I'm  to  myself  in  honor  bound! 
That  fan  this  evening  shall  be  found. 

NANCY.     Oh,    pray,   what   difference   does   it 

make, 
Just  for  to-night? 

HUGH.  There  is  at  stake 

Something  I  care  for. 

RALPH.  On  the  stair 

I  hunted  —  underneath  each  chair. 

181 


SHORT  PLAYS 


I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  fear 

'Tis  lost  —  and  yet  perhaps  'tis  here ! 

[He  says  this  as  if  with  sudden  thought  and  as 
if  with  inspiration  goes  to  the  mantel-piece, 
takes  one  of  the  tall  candlesticks  from  it,  and 
proceeds   to   walk  about   the   room   looking 
carefully  on  the  floor  for  the  fan.~\ 
NANCY  [rather  nervously  to  Hugh]. 
Why  don't  you  take  the  other  one? 

[Hugh  goes  to  the  mantelpiece  and  takes  there 
from  the  other  tall  lighted  candlestick  and 
goes  about  the  room  as  Ralph  does,  hunting 
on  the  floor  and  under  the  curtains  and  furni 
ture  for  the  fan.~\ 

NANCY  [her  nervousness  increasing,  as  she 
watches  first  one  and  then  the  other  and 
finally  gets  up  and  follows  first  one  and  then 
the  other]. 

Oh,  please  don't  bother  any  more, 
I'm  sure  it  isn't  on  the  floor. 
Give  up  the  search,  I  beg  of  you! 

HUGH.     "  Give  up  "  was  never  yet  my  cue. 
RALPH.     To  give  up  now  I  could  not  bear. 
HUGH.     But  this  I'll  do :  it  is  not  fair 
For  me  to  stay,  I'll  take  my  turn. 
And  if  your  candle  brightly  burn  [to  Ralph'] 
While  I'm  away,  e'en  though  I  bring 
The  fan  to  win  the  promising  [to  Nancy] 
If  Nancy  wishes  to  unsay 
Her  promise,  she  shall  have  her  way. 

[The  two  men  stand  on  either  side  of  the  girl 
and  hold  up  their  candles  to  light  her  and 
as  if  to  pledge  her.  Hugh  bows,  then  walks 

182 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

across  in  front  of  her  and  on  out  through 
the  curtains.] 

RALPH.     He  goeth  forth  upon  his  quest 
And  whether  in  earnest  or  in  jest 
No  man  can  say. 

[He  turns  from  looking  after  Hugh  to  Nancy, 
and  gestures  to  her  to  be  seated  upon  the 
settee.] 

RALPH.  Will  you  not  sit? 

[She  sits  down  on  the  settee.] 
The  last  quadrille  —  he  may  have  it. 
I  care  not  much. 

NANCY.  Oh,  but  you  should! 

I  mean  I  almost  think  you  would 
If  you  but  knew.     'Tis  very  meet 
For  you  to  know.     Quite  indiscreet 
For  me  to  tell.     Oh,  can't  you  guess? 
RALPH.     I  only  want  you  to  say  "  Yes." 
[He  goes  to   the  mantelpiece  and  places   the 

candlestick  upon  it.] 
'Tis  foolish,  sure,  to  break  a  lance 
Just  for  the  trifle  of  a  dance. 

[He  comes  back  and  takes  the  little  gilt  chair, 

placing  it  in  front  of  her  and  sits  down] 
Now,  Nancy,  give  me  your  consent, 
You  must  have  known  'twas  my  intent 
To  ask  you  for  my  wife  some  day. 
I  never  dreamed  you'd  say  me  nay, 
Or  even  that  you'd  hesitate. 

NANCY.     You  left  a  great  deal,  sir,  to  fate. 
Don't  lovers  think  they  have  to  woo? 

RALPH.     They're  fools,  I'd  too  much  else  to 

do. 
But  now  the  time  is  ripe,  dear  Nan. 

183 


SHORT  PLAYS 


NANCY.     You'd  better,  then,  go  hunt  my  fan. 
RALPH.     That's  unimportant  — 
NANCY.  Nay,  not  so!  [anxiously] 

Indeed,  you  really  ought  to  go. 

RALPH.     Upon  that  article  of  dress, 
Your  fan,  you  lay  too  much  of  stress. 

NANCY.     Since  you'll  not  guess,  I'm  forced  to 

tell 

I've  promised  him  my  heart  as  well 
Who  brings  my  fan. 

RALPH.  By  Jove,  I  see ! 

But,  Nancy,  this  is  trickery. 

[He  gets  up  hastily  at  the  last  speech  and  now 
moves  toward  the  door.  He  has  taken  up 
the  candlestick.'] 

'Tis  foolishness ! 

NANCY.  We'll  play  the  game 

And  have  no  one  but  fate  to  blame. 

RALPH    [stopping   at    the   door   and   looking 

greatly  disturbed]. 

Where  do  you  think  you  could  have  left 
The  fan?     Where  shall  I  hunt?     A  theft 
You  guess  it  was? 

NANCY.  I  can  not  say 

And  should  not  if  I  could  —  good  day! 

[Ralph    rushes    toward    the    door    and    runs 
straight  into  Hugh,  who  is  coming  through 
the  curtains.] 
RALPH.     You've    got    the    fan?     [Hurriedly 

and  anxiously.] 

HUGH.  One  doesn't  get 

What  he  already  has.     Nanette, 
I  left  you  in  fantastic  mood  — 

184 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

I've  come  back  and  would  fain  be  good. 

Ralph  seemed  just  now  so  keen  to  go 

About  his   business  —  leave   you   so  —  [noncha 
lantly] 

I  wouldn't  have  him  stay  for  me. 

[Hugh   puts    his    candle    on    the    mantelpiece. 
Ralph  does  not  budge,  but  looks  angrily  at 
Hugh.~\ 
HUGH.     Oh,  very  well,  I  quite  agree 

To  have  him  witness  what  I  tell. 

[He  addresses  himself  always   to  Nancy,  ig 
noring  Ralph.] 

'Twas  when  you  left  the  chair  it  fell  [producing 
the  fan] 

So  noiselessly  you  did  not  hear. 

I  picked  it  up  because  'twas  dear 

To  me,  and  I  meant  not  to  give 

It  back,  but  keep  it  while  I  live. 

Then  came  the  chance  to  tease  you,   for    [ges 
turing  toward  Ralph] 

'Tis  said,  all's  fair  in  love  and  war. 

All  is  not  fair  and  honor's  due, 

So  I  give  back  the  fan  to  you. 

It  is  to  you  that  I  confess 

I  couldn't  risk  your  happiness. 

RALPH.     To  choose  is  now  within  your  will, 

May  I  not  have  the  last  quadrille? 

NANCY.     You  may,  dear  Ralph,  I'll  speak  you 
fair, 

If  Hugh  will  kindly  seek  my  chair 

And  walk  beside  it  home  with  me 

To  see  my  Grandma,  probably 

She'd  like  to-night  to  wish  us  joy. 

185 


SHORT  PLAYS 


[She  prettily  extends  her  hand  to  Hugh,  smil 
ing.  Ralph  takes  in  the  situation  a  little 
slowly  and  sullenly.~\ 

RALPH.     I  beg  your  pardon  —  I'll  annoy 
You  no  further. 

[He  looks  a  little  helplessly  at  the  candle  as 
he  turns  to  go.  Hugh  steps  forward  and 
takes  it  from  him.  Ralph  departs  through 
the  curtains.  Hugh  blows  out  the  candle 
and  places  it  on  the  mantelpiece  —  his  own 
is  still  burning  —  then  comes  to  Nancy. ,] 
HUGH.  Are  you  quite 

Content,  sweetheart,  that  this  is  right? 
NANCY.     I  was  so  very  much  afraid 
It  wouldn't  end  this  way!     A  maid 
Can't  see  a  man's  heart  until  he 
Makes  clear  his  love  with  honesty. 

HUGH.     You  didn't  think  that  I  was  true? 
NANCY.     You  hadn't  proved  it  yet,  had  you? 
Until  you  did,  I  had  to  play 
The  game  —  I  wanted  you  alway. 

HUGH.     But,  dearest,  truly  will  you  now 
Believe  I'll  keep  my  lover's  vow? 

NANCY.     Ah,  can't  you  see  I  give,  dear  Hugh, 
My  fan  [extending  it  to  him] 

And  hand  [letting  her  hand  rest  in  his] 

And  heart  [laying  her  head  upon 

his  breast] 
To  you? 

[The  music  of  the  old-fashioned  orchestra  is 
heard  from  the  hall.  Curtain.'] 


186 


A  MODERN  MASQUE. 

CHARACTERS  AS  THEY  APPEAR. 

GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  DRAMA. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SPRING  OR  OF  YOUTH. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  WOMAN. 

[SCENE :  An  open  green  of  thick  young 
grass,  surrounded  to  make  an  irregular  circle 
by  bushes,  some  of  them  in  flower,  sweet  syr- 
inga,  fringe,  and  others.  A  hill  rises  in  the 
background  covered  with  thick  young  grass 
which  waves  in  the  wind.  On  the  hill  are  also 
bushes,  hawthorns  in  white  flower,  some  bloom 
ing  fruit  trees,  and  a  great  honey-locust  still 
in  blossom,  its  petals  falling  and  making  snow 
upon  the  green  grass  beneath.  In  the  dis 
tance  is  a  woodland.  Joseph  Addis  on  and  G. 
B.  Shaw  appear  on  either  side  of  the  green, 
stop  and  gaze  upon  each  other  with  rather  hos 
tile  and  contemptuous  curiosity.  Addis  on  is 
dressed  in  a  very  gay  eighteenth  century  cos 
tume  of  green  velvet  with  brocaded  waistcoat, 
prodigious,  powdered  wig,  silk  stockings,  and 
buckled  shoes.  Shaw  wears  a  gray  flannel 
shirt,  soft  flowing  Windsor  tie,  Norfolk  jacket, 
187 


SHORT  PLAYS 


knickerbockers,  soft  slouch  hat,  and  heavy 
tramping  Oxfords.  He  carries  a  walking  stick 
and  is  rather  intrusive  with  his  usual  plentiful 
supply  of  red  whiskers. ~\ 

ADDISON  [aside"]. 

Whom  have  we  here  in  such  uncouth  attire  ? 
A  bearded  lackey  in  his  master's  hire? 
What  breach  of  taste  —  no  wig  upon  his 

head 
But  fluent  hair  about  his  mouth  instead ! 

SHAW.  Good  heavens,  man,  don't  you  know 
better  than  to  use  an  aside?  They  are  alto 
gether  out  of  date.  The  ancient  fools  and  fac- 
totems  of  the  stage  like  Shakespeare  and  Addison 
used  asides  but  I  have  changed  all  that.  I  am 
preacher,  reformer,  prophet.  I  have  taught  the 
public  to  expect  life  in  the  drama  and  not  senti 
mentality  and  artificiality. 

ADDISON  [aside~\. 

Astounding  circumstance !     Who  can  the 

fellow  be 
To  speak  of  drama,  yet  not  recognize  me ! 

SHAW.  There  you  go  again  with  another 
aside  when  I  have  just  said  they  are  not  per 
missible.  You  are  as  bull-headed  as  one  of  the 
Georges  or  an  Englishman. 

ADDISON  [advancing  with  courtly  manners,  but 
glaring] . 

Good  fellow,  though  your  manners  be 
uncouth, 

188 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


You  speak  of  drama,  know  you  then  the 

truth: 

I,  John  Addison,  before  you  stand, 
Your  purpose  and  your  name  I  would 

demand. 

SHAW.  How  deliciously  humorous !  But  now 
you  see  how  I  do  it.  I  say  right  out  to 
your  face  what  I  think  —  that  is  the  way  I  al 
ways  treat  the  public,  especially  if  I  think  they  are 
too  stupid  to  understand. 
ADDISON. 

The  advantage  of  me  still,  my  man,  you 

claim, 
I,  Joseph  Addison,  know  not  your  name. 

SHAW.  Well,  it  would  be  almost  egotistical 
in  me  to  expect  you  to.  To  expect  a  man  who 
died  a  century  before  I  was  born  to  know  me, 
although  my  whiskers  are  pretty  familiar  in  most 
parts  of  London.  I  am  George  Bernard  Shaw, 
critic,  essayist,  satirist,  socialist,  dramatist,  genius. 
It  is  my  business  to  shatter  ideals  and  wittily 
block  out  to  the  world  formulae  for  unpleasant 
truths.  My  foster  child,  Arnold  Bennett,  has 
been  rather  usurping  my  place  lately  and  I  am 
thinking  of  killing  him  with  one  of  my  stinging 
satirical  remarks.  But  I  haven't  altogether  de 
cided  yet,  for  he  doesn't  bother  me  much  in  my 
particular  sphere.  I  am  still  the  foremost  critic 
and  dramatist  of  the  world. 

ADDISON  [politely  unctuous~\. 

A  critic  and  a  dramatist  combined  I  see ! 
Indeed  'tis  fairly  like  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury. 

189 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SHAW  [smiling],  A  little  —  with  a  vast  im 
provement.  You  fellows  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  had  some  ideas  of  art  —  I  give  you  full 
credit  for  that.  Any  one  of  you  had  more  knowl 
edge  of  art  than  that  idiot  in  craftsmanship,  that 
gigantic  blunderer,  that  colossal  superstition, 
Shakespeare.  Don't  misunderstand  me  —  I  use 
the  term  superstition  in  connection  with  Shake 
speare  to  mean  not  at  all  that  he  did  not  exist  or 
that  he  did  not  write  his  own  plays. 

ADDISON  [smiling  superciliously], 

Truly  of  that  there  could  not  be  a  doubt  1 
A  stable  boy,  manners  and  wit  without ! 
Also,  a  man  hath  said  what  he  hath  said, 
Produced  his  products  from  his  own  poor 
head. 

SHAW.  You  are  altogether  lucid,  Joseph. 
I  quite  agree  with  you.  [Poetry  and  Drama  go 
up  the  hill  together  and  wander  about  slowly 
among  the  trees  and  bushes.  They  are  both 
dressed  in  flowing  garments  of  Greek  style, 
Poetry  in  soft  blue,  Drama  in  old  rose.  Drama 
carries  a  flowering  branch  of  hawthorn.']  Shake 
speare's  greatness  is  the  superstition  I  refer  to. 
Every  one  knows  that  I  think  my  plays  are  in 
finitely  better  than  Shakespeare's  and  what  I 
think  every  one  will  have  to  think  sooner  or 
later.  Oh,  Shakespeare  wrote  his  own  plays. 
Bacon  was  too  scientific  and  mental  to  produce 
such  atrocious  rot  and  gush.  Some  time  ago  I 
remarked  that  I  wanted  to  dig  up  Shakespeare's 
bones  and  string  them  up  to  shoot  at  for  his  bad 
art.  But  now  I  realize  that  isn't  enough.  I 

190 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


want  to  exterminate  him  completely.  But  he  is 
elusive.  His  influence  turns  up  in  the  most  un 
expected  places.  But  I  was  told  on  very  good 
authority,  that  of  J.  M.  Barrie,  that  I  would  be 
most  apt  to  find  him  in  fairyland  —  especially 
at  this  time  of  the  year.  So  I  have  come  to  fairy 
land  —  here  —  to  hunt  him  down. 

[Poetry  and  Drama  slowly  wander  down  the 
hill  on  one  side.  Shakespeare  and  Spring 
emerge  from  behind  the  bushes  on  the  other 
side  of  the  green  and  go  up  the  hill  a  little 
way.  They  are  not  together.  Shakespeare 
is  in  the  conventional  Shakespearean  cos 
tume  of  black  velvet.  Spring  is  in  light 
green  hose,  and  a  little  short  coat,  no  shoest 
honeysuckle  in  his  hair  and  a  long  chain  of 
wild  sweet  clover  hanging  from  one  shoul 
der  down  to  the  other  side.] 
ADDISON. 

We  scorn  allusions  to  the  land  of  fairy, 
we, 

The  social  satirists  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury, 

Yet  I  to  fairyland  have  come,  like  you, 

To  find  out  Shakespeare  and  to  thrust  him 
through. 

SHAW   [advancing,  and  the  two  shake  hands 
like  two  conspirators].     Good  for  you,  Joseph! 
I  didn't  know  you  had  so  much  blood  in  you. 
[Shakespeare  has  appeared  quietly  on  one  side 

of  the  green] 

SHAKESPEARE   [aside].     "So  much  blood  as 
would  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea." 

191 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SHAW.  I  don't  take  any  more  stock  in  fairy 
land  than  you  do.  It  is  a  crude  and  at  the  same 
time  an  artificial  society,  a  nationality  devoid  of 
science  or  ethics  or  social  uplift  and  fit  only  for 
those  sucking-doves  of  idiots,  such  as  Willie 
Yeats  and  the  other  new-thought  Irishmen,  who 
are  not  Irishmen  at  all,  by  the  way  —  I  am  the 
only  Irishman  —  but  just  ordinary  freaks  that 
might  occur  in  Russia  or  Borneo  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact — [the  spirits  of  Poetry  and  Drama, 
who  have  been  wandering  about  among  the 
trees,  now  come  quietly  down  to  the  green  on 
the  other  side  from  Shakespeare  while  Shaw 
makes  this  speech.] 

POETRY.  There  is  Bernard  Shaw  talking  as 
usual.  \_To  Drama.] 

SHAW  [continuing],  — and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  have  occurred  in  France  and  Germany  and 
England  at  intervals  throughout  the  history  of 
the  world,  as  in  the  case  of  Shakespeare  and 
Shelley  — 

POETRY  [coming  forward].  Shelley?  What 
have  you  to  say  of  Shelley? 

SHAW.  Only  that  he  was  insane  and  an  an 
archist.  His  was  a  mind  gone  wrong.  I  some 
times  think  if  he  had  lived  in  my  day  I  might 
have  converted  him  and  made  something  out  of 
him,  that  is  to  say,  made  a  socialist  out  of  him. 
But  it  would  be  almost  egotistical  in  me  to  ex 
pect  to  have  an  influence  over  a  man  who  died 
before  I  was  born  —  approximately.  But,  my 
dear  madam,  who  are  you  ?  I  think  I  never  met 
you. 

POETRY.  You  are  quite  right.  You  do  not 
192 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


know  me  and  I  think  you  will  never  know  me.  I 
am  the  spirit  of  Poetry. 

SHAW.  Quite  so.  I  permit  myself  to  be 
blind  to  the  unessentials.  You  are  a  creature  of 
no  particular  value  in  the  ethical  or  scientific  or 
social  economy. 

ADDISON. 

Indeed,  my  friend,  you  do  egregious  wrong, 
Oh,  do  not  scorn,  but  praise  immortal  song! 
I  bow  before  the  bright  celestial  Muse, 
May  she  with  light  my  poor  attempts  in 
fuse! 

May  she  with  inspiration  touch  my  rhyme, 
And  all  my  lines  march  to  her  feet  sublime  1 

[Spring  has  been  wandering  about  on  the  hill 
side,  playing  with  flowers  and  weaving 
chains  of  them,  and  now  conies  down  to  the 
green.~\ 

POETRY.  It  all  depends  upon  thy  sincerity, 
dear  worshiper.  One  doubts  a  little  of  thee. 
My  poets  no  longer  harass  their  souls  for  the 
sake  of  that  corset  called  rhyme.  There  was 
Walt  Whitman,  for  instance,  who  did  not  know 
rhyme  from  a  turkey  buzzard  —  yet  —  [rever 
ently]  —  yet  one  touches  the  memory  of  his  soul 
as  one  would  touch  a  wind-flower. 

SPRING.  A  wind-flower?  One  of  my  flow 
ers?  You  were  talking  of  one  of  my  flowers, 
Poetry? 

POETRY.  Yes,  Spring,  one  of  your  flowers 
and  one  of  your  people.  [To  Shaw  and  Addi- 
5o«.]  This  little  person  is  the  spirit  of  Spring 
or  of  Youth,  one  of  my  dear  friends. 

193 


SHAW.  It  would  be  almost  egotistical  in  me 
to  expect  to  remember  Youth  since  I  am  so  es 
sentially  middle-aged,  yet  I  can  readily  see  that 
youth  may  exist  in  fairyland.  But  who  is  this 
other  gentleman?  He  looks  rather  attractive  in 
spite  of  his  silly  clothing.  Is  he  —  to  put  it  in  the 
English  sense  —  one  of  your  followers?  [To 
Poetry.  ] 

POETRY.  I  have  told  you  that  I  am  Poetry. 
This  is  another  friend  of  mine.  He  sometimes 
goes  about  by  himself  but  he  is  always  more 
splendid  when  I  am  with  him.  We  are  always 
together  in  the  house  of  Shakespeare  or  of 
Maeterlinck  or  of  Rostand.  He  is  the  spirit  of 
Drama. 

SHAW  [with  effusion,  making  for  Drama,  who 
stands  back  from  him  coldly.~\  Ah,  my  dear  fel 
low,  I  am  your  friend  and  patron,  the  best  ex 
ponent  of  you  on  the  stage  to-day. 

DRAMA  [with  dignity].     I  do  not  know  you. 

SHAW.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  am  G.  B.  Shaw, 
I  am  your  patron  saint! 

DRAMA.  You  might  be  the  devil  by  the  look 
of  you.  Your  make-up  would  do  for  Mephis- 
topheles  in  "  Faust,"  yet  —  oh,  pshaw,  I  [smiling'] 
do  not  know  you.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance. 

SHAW.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  you  re 
member?  I  criticized  plays  for  years  and  now 
I  write  them. 

DRAMA.  That  proves  you  are  no  dramatist. 
A  budding  genius  writes  plays  first  and  criticizes 
them  afterwards. 

SHAW.     Geniuses  don't  bud  nowadays.     They 

194 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


are  scientifically  developed  by  vegetarian  nourish 
ment  —  starting  with  the  kindergarten,  or,  I  may 
say,  with  pre-natal  influence. 

DRAMA  [puzzled].  He  doesn't  sound  like 
Sophocles  or  Moliere  or  even  Hauptmann  or 
D'Annunzio  or  Maeterlinck. 

POETRY.     Mr.  Shaw  is  British,  you  know. 

DRAMA.  But  there  was  my  Shakespeare  —  he 
was  British. 

POETRY.     The  superman  of  British  art. 

SHAW  [staggering  back}.  Superman!  Good 
heavens,  merciful  powers !  They  apply  my  own 
dear  designation  to  that  driveling  idiot! 

[Drama  and  Poetry  support  him.] 

SHAKESPEARE.  "  That  was  the  most  unkind- 
est  cut  of  all." 

SHAW.  Thanks,  I'm  all  right.  Any  one  who 
in  knee  breeches  and  gray  flannel  shirt  has 
trundled  his  art  through  the  streets  of  London 
as  I  have  done  has  learned  to  stand  on  his  own 
two  legs.  But,  what  puzzles  me,  Drama,  is  what 
you  are  doing  in  fairyland? 

SPRING  [dancing  down  from  behind  and 
around  among  them  on  the  green]. 

All  roads  go  to  fairyland, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know, 
Joy  and  Beauty  hand-in-hand 
Lead  the  way  to  fairyland, 
Dancing,  singing  as  they  go. 

[He  dances  down  the  center  among  them,  then 

vanishes  into  the  background.] 
DRAMA.     I  fear,  Mr.  Shaw,  you  are  merely  a 
phase  of  the  moment.     You  do  not  realize  that 


SHORT  PLAYS 


I  am  cosmopolitan,  that  I  am  of  time  and  of 
eternity.  I  have  abodes  everywhere  —  even  a 
castle  in  Spain  —  like  many  another  poor  soul. 
One  of  my  chiefest  estates  is  in  fairyland,  and  I 
am  never  quite  happy  unless  I  carry  a  spray  from 
fairyland  with  me.  We  call  that  spray  Fantasy. 

POETRY.  The  question  is,  what  are  you  do 
ing  in  fairyland,  Mr.  Shaw?  It  is  a  very  strange 
place  for  you  to  be  in  and  very  strange  that  here 
in  fairyland  you  should  come  for  the  first  time 
face  to  face  with  the  spirit  of  Drama.  Though 
you  are  not  the  first  one  who  has  had  to  come  to 
dreamland  to  meet  him. 

SHAW.  Why,  I  will  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you.  I  was  never  one  to  hide  my  talents  or  my 
opinions  under  a  bushel.  I  am  after  Shake 
speare. 

DRAMA.  You  are  after  Shakespeare  —  a  long 
way  after. 

SHAW.  He  was  so  bungling  a  fool  in  his  art, 
his  craftsmanship  was  so  imperfect,  he  didn't 
know  what  construction  meant  in  the  drama,  and 
I  am  sick  of  his  false  pretensions  and  position  and 
all  the  adulation  paid  him,  so  I  am  going  to  ex 
terminate  him.  I  and  my  old  friend  here, 
Joseph.  Joseph,  where  are  you? 

\_Addison  has  gone  to  sleep  on  a  log,  and  the 
spirit  of  Woman  has  entered  unobserved 
during  Shaw's  speech.~\ 

WOMAN.  You  mean  Joseph  Kipling,  I  sup 
pose.  That  unfortunate  fellow  who  was  once 
Rudyard  Kipling,  the  gifted  boy,  the  very  darling 
of  the  gods.  But  his  taste  for  cynicism  and  sen 
sationalism  have  ruined  him.  He  has  degen- 

196 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


erated  into  a  common  and  unpleasant  man-scold 
in  the  ugliest  of  ill-fitting  clothing  and  the  most 
unsanitary  of  wire-haired  mustaches.  So  we  call 
him  no  longer  Rudyard  but  Joseph  —  it  seems  to 
suit  him  better. 

SHAW.  No,  I  don't  mean  Kipling.  He  has 
all  he  can  do  fixing  women  in  their  right  place 
and  earning  enough  money  for  keeping  a  wife 
to  bear  him  children.  He  is  busy  with  the  female 
of  the  species.  I  mean  Addison.  Where  are 
you,  Joseph?  You  were  here  a  moment  ago. 

ADDISON  [who  has  been  sitting  asleep  on  the 
log,  now  jumps  to  his  feet,  winking  fast  to  get 
awake.] 

A  bloody  business  now  we  have  on  hand, 
Drenching  with  gore  the  sod  of  fairyland! 
Ladies,  I  pray  you,  flee  from  hence  afar, 
Where  anguished  groans  may  not  your 
spirits  jar! 

WOMAN  [running  forward].  Oh,  do  not  shed 
blood,  I  beseech  you! 

POETRY.  Oh,  do  no  harm  to  Shakespeare,  I 
entreat  you ! 

SHAW  [patronizingly].  Now,  my  dears,  don't 
make  an  unpleasant  scene.  We  are  quite  deter 
mined  to  kill  him.  [To  Woman.']  You  are  the 
spirit  of  Woman,  I  perceive,  even  though  you 
are  in  different  clothing  from  that  I  usually  dress 
you  in,  I  know  you  too  well  to  be  fooled  by  mere 
outward  trappings.  Now,  run  away,  dears,  like 
good  women,  and  weep  privately  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  place  where  your  sobs  will  not  be  heard. 
We  dislike  feminine  wailing.  And  we  have 

197 


SHORT  PLAYS 


man's  business  to  attend  to.     Joseph,  where  are 
you?     Where  do  you  suppose  Shakespeare  is? 

WOMAN.     Oh,  where  is  he  that  we  warn  him? 

POETRY.  Oh,  where  is  he  that  we  may  protect 
him? 

SHAKESPEARE  [advancing  with  a  courtly  bow 
to  Poetry],  I  am  here,  dear  madonna  [bowing 
in  the  same  courtly  way  to  Shaw].  I  am  here, 
good  hangman.  I  am  among  you  as  the  artist 
is  always  among  you.  I  am  at  the  mercy  of  the 
dilettante  [bowing  to  Addison\  and  of  the  medi 
ocre  [bowing  to  Shaw]  as  the  genius  is  always  at 
their  mercy.  And  I  am  defenseless  as  the  artist 
is  always  defenseless. 

[Poetry  and  Woman  quickly  hurry  to  Shake 
speare  and  stand  in  front  of  him,  protect- 
in  gly.~\ 

POETRY  [to  Shakespeare].  They  dare  not 
touch  you,  my  lord. 

SHAKESPEARE.  They  dare  touch  anything, 
dear  madonna.  "  Fools  rush  in  where  angels 
fear  to  tread."  Nothing  in  this  world  is  safe 
from  the  dilettante  and  the  mediocre  and,  thou 
wilt  add,  from  the  vulgar  and  the  over-zealous 
neophyte.  With  greasy  thumb  they  rub  the 
bloom  from  the  blue  grape,  and  with  sickening 
breath  they  wither  the  blue  violet.  They  go 
about  the  earth  like  deadly  flies  destroying  love 
liness.  There  is  nothing  left  to  the  lover  of 
beauty  but  his  own  soul  and  the  blue  of  heaven. 

SHAW.  Talking  sentimental  gush,  as  usual. 
Come,  Joseph,  we  must  do  for  him.  Ladies, 
please  stand  aside. 

198 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


[Addison  unsheathes  his  sword  and  Shaw 
brandishes  his  walking  stick.  Woman  and 
Poetry  gather  closer  round  Shakespeare  and 
shield  him.'] 

POETRY.     Oh,  my  lord,  will  you  not  flee? 
WOMAN  [to  Addison  and  Shaw].     You  dare 
not  touch  him  till  you  have  first  made  way  with 
me. 

SHAW.     Well,  you  may  have  observed  that  we 
are  rather  doing  that. 
ADDISON  [grandiosely]. 

Give  over  dreams  and  feminine  inanity, 
Make  way  for  men  and  true  poetic  sanity ! 

DRAMA.  I  am  cosmopolitan,  impartial,  un 
prejudiced,  but  when  a  conflict  comes  I  must  stand 
upon  the  right  side.  I  beg  you  not  to  be  too 
foolishly  militant,  rude,  ungenerous,  and  —  most 
of  all  —  short-sighted,  gentlemen,  against  a 
genius  so  beautiful,  so  wonderful.  You  will  see 
the  day  when  you  will  rue  it. 

SHAW.  Pooh,  pooh,  the  fight  is  on.  [Hold 
ing  up  his  walking  stick.]  This  is  my  strong 
weapon,  satire.  It  is  stronger  than  Excalibur  or 
the  sword  of  Siegfried  —  strong,  hard,  and  ma 
terial.  With  it  I  fight  and  slay  all  silly  prettiness, 
untruths,  and  dreams. 

WOMAN.  Ah,  who  are  you,  to  know  what 
now  is  truth? 

[Shaw  makes  a  lunge,  followed  by  Addison. 
Poetry  and  Woman  with  Drama  between 
them  and  a  little  in  front  of  them,  gather  to 
gether,  stand  silently  before  Shakespeare  and 
199 


SHORT  PLAYS 


begin  to  wave  filmy  veils  toward  Shaw  and 
Addison.  The  latter  halt,  step  back,  and 
stand  as  if  transfixed.] 

SHAW  [low  and  mumbling].  What  are  they 
doing,  Joseph?  Are  they  doing  the  same  thing 
to  you?  I  feel  sleepy.  They  are  doing  some 
thing. 

ADDISON.     They  do  what  they  have  done  these 

hundred  years, 
An  incantation  worthy  your  worst  fears. 

SHAW.  Incantation?  Nonsense.  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  incantations.  But  they  are  doing  some 
thing.  Have  they  done  this  to  you  for  a  hun 
dred  years?  I  feel  —  it  would  be  almost  ego 
tistical  in  me  —  to  remember  —  a  hundred  years. 
ADDISON. 

Time  and  oblivion  are  the  subtle  wrong 
These  beings  use  upon  my  plays  and  song. 
The  venom  worketh  with  the  slow  sad  hour, 
Against  their  poisonous  charms  we  have 
no  power. 

SHAW.  Have  they  done  it  to  you  for  a  hun 
dred  years,  Joseph?  No  —  no  wonder  your 
brain  is  such  a  dusty  old  miller.  But  I  think  — 
they  —  will  not  do  it  to  me  for  so  long.  I  —  I 
am  too  sane  —  too  brilliant  —  too  —  I  shall  have 
to  use  my  stick  to  support  myself  with.  I  am  so 
ridiculously  sleepy. 

[Shakespeare  stands  quietly  behind  them, 
watching.  Spring,  who  has  been  in  the  back 
ground  all  the  while,  is  now  waving  a  wreath 
of  flowers.] 

200 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


POETRY. 

We  wave  you  the  spell  of  the  years, 

Forgetfulness  cruel  and  sure, 

We  wave  it  in  sorrow  and  tears 

To  souls  unfit  to  endure. 

Forgetfulness  subtle  and  sure 

Is  our  weapon  that  blights  you  and  sears, 

The  little  and  mean  and  impure 

Are  lost  in  the  spell  of  the  years. 

[Addison  and  Shaw  drop  their  weapons  and 
are  as  if  hypnotized.] 

SHAW.  Jo,  Josie,  this  is  no  place  for  us. 
We'd  better  go  back  to  London  and  the  camp  of 
the  socialists.  I'd  like  a  plate  of  nice  boiled  rice 
or  vegetable  marrow  or  some  other  good  vege 
tarian  dish  to  give  me  strength.  These  people 
have  an  atmosphere  that  doesn't  agree  with  my 
health. 

ADDISON. 

They  have  a  power  known  not  to  you 

nor  me, 
'Tis  called  the  gift  of  immortality. 

[They   turn   and  slowly   depart  as   if  nearly 
asleep,  Shaw's  arm  around  Addison's  shoul 
der,  Addison  supporting  Shaw.] 
DRAMA.     Farewell  to  you  who  are  ephemeral. 
WOMAN.     Though   you   two   gentlemen   may 
reside  in  London  for  a  season,  you  must  know 
that  you  are  not  bound  eternally  for  the  shores 
of  Thames,  but  very  eternally  for  the  shores  of 
Lethe. 

201 


SHORT  PLAYS 


POETRY. 

The  earth-soul  of  the  good  and  the  gay 
Recks  naught  of  the  new  nor  the  old, 
But  proffers  his  garlands  of  bay 
To  the  heart  and  the  genius  of  gold. 

[Addison  and  Shaw  are  gone  and  the  others 
turn  now  to  Shakespeare.] 

WOMAN.     You  are  saved,  my  beloved  lover. 

DRAMA.  You  are  saved  once  again,  my  be 
loved  dramatist. 

POETRY.  You  are  saved,  my  lord  and  beloved 
poet. 

SPRING.  You  are  saved,  my  beloved  big 
friend.  But  weren't  you  awfully  worried  and 
frightened?  I  was.  I  didn't  know  what  they 
might  do  to  you.  Didn't  you  want  to  fight  them, 
too?  I  hoped  you  would  fight  them. 

SHAKESPEARE  [smiling'].  The  lusty  blood  in 
springtime  hopes  ever  for  a  pretty  fight.  But 
thou  shouldst  read  thy  Bible,  sweet  youth.  It 
giveth  much  direction  and  much  consolation.  It 
saith,  "  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay,  saith  the 
Lord."  And  moreover,  it  counsels  me  and  thee 
to  "  Fret  not  thyself  because  of  evil-doers." 

SPRING.  Oh,  but  I  did  want  you  to  fight 
even  if  it  was  two  to  one  and  they  had  such  fear 
some  weapons,  and  you  none  at  all. 

SHAKESPEARE.  The  world  hath  fearsome 
weapons  ever  and  it  is  ever  two  against  one  when 
a  genius  hath  the  temerity  to  pit  himself  against 
the  world.  The  genius  must  die,  yet  will  he  live. 
And  he  who  is  scorned  by  the  many  to-day  will 
be  worshiped  by  the  many  to-morrow. 

202 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


WOMAN.  I  must  leave  you  now.  I  must  go 
back  to  the  world.  I  am  needed. 

SPRING.  Don't  you  ever  stop  to  play  and 
have  some  fun?  Don't  you  ever  have  any  fun, 
Woman  ? 

WOMAN.  Oh,  yes,  I  stop  to  play  and  have 
fun,  though  I  didn't  while  I  was  Victorian.  And, 
what  is  pleasantest,  I  am  learning  to  get  fun  out 
of  all  sorts  of  work.  I  must  go  back  to  the  world 
now.  I  am  very  much  needed  there.  I  have  to 
work  for  suffrage  in  New  York. 

DRAMA.  I,  too,  must  go.  They  are  in  need 
of  me  on  Broadway  as  a  naked  man  is  in  need 
of  a  shirt.  I  may  be  able  soon  to  inspire  some 
noble-hearted  youth  to  fight  for  me  against  their 
astute  and  self-satisfied  grossness. 

POETRY.  I,  too,  must  go.  I  am  needed  more 
than  any  of  you.  I  am  needed  to  make  your 
work  sweeter  and  more  effective.  People  think 
I  belong  exclusively  to  fairyland,  but  I  am  in 
everything  and  I  am  needed  everywhere,  though 
they  do  not  know  it,  poor  souls,  and  few  of  them 
ever  see  me. 

[They  start  away  slowly,  Woman  first,  then 
Drama,  and  last  Poetry.] 

POETRY  [turning  back~\.  When  our  beloved 
has  need  of  us,  we  come.  For,  though  opinion 
is  fleeting,  art  is  long  —  long  and  beautiful, 
tenacious  and  dominant,  as  hope  is  and  as  beauty 
itself  is. 

SHAKESPEARE.     Auf  wiedersehen. 

POETRY.     To  the  world,  where  we  are  needed. 

[They    go,    leaving    Shakespeare    and    Spring 
waving  them  good-by.~\ 
203 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SPRING.     Do  you  talk  German,  Shakespeare? 

SHAKESPEARE.  I  speak  in  many  languages, 
to  many  tongues  haye  been  translated.  Thou 
knowest  the  German  folk  have  pictured  me  most 
graciously.  They  understand  me  as  well,  nay 
sometimes  better,  than  have  mine  own  people. 
Yet  I  do  use  auf  wiedersehen  now  only  because 
there  is  in  English  no  expression  for  so  brief  a 
parting. 

SPRING. 

You  meet  your  people  here  and  there, 

Oh,  here  and  there, 
Poetry,  Drama,  Woman  fair, 

Yes,  Woman  fair, 

Philosophy  and  Truth  a*id  Art, 

Oh,  Truth  and  Art, 
Auf  wiedersehen,  you  only  part 

To  meet  again. 

SHAKESPEARE.     But  thou,  my  little  Youth  and 

spirit  of  Spring, 

Art  with  me  ever  as  the  blue  of  heaven, 
For  artists  keep  their  hearts  forever  young, 
And  poets  keep  their  love  of  little  things, 
Of  lambs  and  brooks  and  robins  in  the  grass, 
Of  tiny  new-born  leaves  all  fair  and  frail, 
Of  little  hands  and  chuckling  baby  laughs, 
Of  little  lost  white  clouds  athwart  the  blue, 
Of  smallest  song  of  very  smallest  bird, 
And  softest  wind  among  the  little  leaves, 
Of  wind-flowers  frail  and  wee  blue  violets, 
In  little  dells  of  proper  fairy  size, 
Of  all  the  dearest  things  in  this  dear  world. 

204 


A  MODERN  MASQUE 


SPRING. 

But  so  many  poor  people  forget 
The  spirit  of  joy  and  of  spring, 
And  still  are  despondent  and  fret 
When  redbirds  and  brown  thrashers  sing. 

SHAKESPEARE.     When  weakness  which  is  oft 

a  heavier  weight 

Than  conscious  sin  upon  the  soul  of  man, 
When  selfishness  and  lethargy  and  lack 
Of  generous  attitude  towards  others'  weal, 
When  hardened  middle-age  and  pedant  self 
And  all  the  concrete  stubborn  cruelties 
That  come  not  from  hot  blood  but  cold  experi 
ence, 

Turning  life's  currents  into  frozen  streams, 
When  most  these  hard  unprofitable  things 
Do  weigh  upon  my  spirit  and  do  sear 
The  joy  of  life  within,  then  most  I  think 
Of  thee  and  all  thy  fair  young  loveliness. 
"  When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight," 
I  lift  mine  eyes  unto  the  blue  of  heaven 
In  silent  gratitude  for  spring,  for  youth. 
When  coldness  in  the  winter  of  the  year 
Or  hardness  in  the  winter  of  the  soul 
Do  vex  me  most,  then  is  it  time  for  thee. 

SPRING. 

Sing  a  song  of  bluebirds, 
Spring  is  coming  by, 
Sing  a  song  of  robins, 
Blue  is  in  the  sky, 
205 


SHORT  PLAYS 


Sing  a  song  of  blossoms, 
Fragrance  in  the  air, 
Sing  a  song  of  fairyland, 
Joyance  everywhere. 

SHAKESPEARE.     Therefore,  since  thou  art  still 

my  little  friend, 

Little  brother  and  page,  it  seemeth  me, 
Attendant  still  upon  us  poets  ever, 
Belonging  to  us  down  through  all  the  years, 
I  give  thee  now,  our  very  dearest  treasure, 
Spirit  of  Spring,  oh,  joyous  spirit  of  Youth, 
I  give  thee  to  the  world,  and  so,  farewell. 

[Shakespeare  presents  Youth  to  the  world  or 
the  audience  and  then  silently  withdraws 
into  the  background  of  shrubbery  at  the 
other  side  of  the  green  from  where  the 
other  spirits  have  gone  —  on  the  same  side 
from  which  he  came.  Youth  extends  his 
arms  to  the  world  and  sings :] 
YOUTH  OR  SPRING. 

Violets  growing  few, 
Cometh  the  rose, 
Daylight  is  going  by, 
Soon  will  the  twilight  sky 
Half-moon  disclose 
Still  in  the  fairest  blue 
Over  the  dreaming  dew. 
Beauty  forever  nigh, 
I  come  to  you ! 

[He  comes  out  among  them.~\ 
206 


THE  FUTURISTS. 
(AN  EARLY  WOMAN'S  CLUB  MEETING.) 

MRS.  JAMES  WHITE,  hostess,  nouveau  riche, 
but  somewhat  timid. 

MRS.  J.  M.  SMITH,  if  Catholic  would  have  been 
a  Mother  Superior,  as  Presbyterian  is  presi 
dent  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society. 

Miss  HOPE  WRIGHT,  the  ultra  modern  scientist 
of  the  '8o's. 

MRS.  WESTON-JONES,  grass  widow,  who  paints 
on  china  and  recites. 

Miss  FLORA  MAY  ROGERS,  the  leader  who  illum 
inates  conventional  progress. 

MRS.  SCRUBBS,  D.  A.  R. —  decayed  aristocracy 
rising. 

Miss  BEATON,  who  sings. 

MRS.  CLARENCE  MELLIMORE,  asthete. 

With  humble  apologies  to  everybody.  The  D. 
A.  R.  lady  did  not  exist  in  the  early  eighties,  but 
she  is  too  delightful  to  be  omitted  from  such  a 
gathering  as  this.  Please  let  her  charm,  then,  ex 
cuse  her  inadvertence. 

[Curtains  open  upon  Mrs.  White's  1882  par 
lor.  The  room  has  a  low  mantelpiece  with  a 
large  mirror  over  it  at  the  center  of  the  back. 
In  this  mirror  Mrs.  Preston-Jones  is  reflected 
to  the  real  audience  when  she  recites.  The 
207 


furniture  is  the  inartistic  stuff  of  that  inartis 
tic  Victorian  period.  There  is  a  bass-rockert 
if  possible,  several  screens  covered  with  Japa 
nese  fans,  Japanese  paper  umbrellas  above  the 
pictures,  "  throws  "  everywhere,  ribbons  tied  in 
great  bows  to  chairs  and  vases,  a  gilded 
rolling  pin  hanging  from  the  wall,  a  large 
shovel  gilded  and  with  a  snow  scene  covered 
with  diamond  dust  painted  on  it,  ugly  bric-a- 
brac,  furniture  upholstered  in  rep  and  hair 
cloth.  The  room  is  cluttered  and  disconcert 
ing.  When  the  ladies  are  seated,  they  should 
form  a  semi-circle,  facing  the  audience,  with 
Miss  Rogers  in  the  center.  They  should  be 
placed:  Miss  Wright,  Miss  Beaton,  Mrs. 
Scrubbs,  Miss  Rogers,  Mrs.  Smith,  Mrs. 
Mellimore,  Mrs.  White,  Mrs.  Weston-Jones. 
Miss  Rogers  should  be  provided  after  they 
are  seated,  with  a  glass  of  water  on  a  little 
stand.  Mrs.  White  enters  with  a  broad  piece 
of  ribbon  which  she  ties  in  a  big  bow  to  the  han 
dle  of  a  gilded  shovel  standing  in  the  corner. 
She  then  goes  to  the  table  and  regards  the 
books,  novels  by  Black,  Miss  Braddon,  and 
the  Duchess.  She  goes  out  and  brings  in 
"  Lucile "  and  "  Aurora  Leigh,"  which  she 
places  in  conspicuous  positions  on  the  table. 
As  she  does  so  the  bell  rings  and  Mrs.  Smith 
and  Miss  Wright  enter.  Greetings.'} 

WRIGHT.  Look  here,  Mrs.  White,  I  don't 
want  you  to  insult  Mrs.  Smith  by  thinking  we 
came  together.  We  didn't.  We  just  happened 
to  meet  at  your  door.  She  wouldn't  be  seen 

208 


THE  FUTURISTS 


on  the  street  with  me.  Of  course  she  couldn't 
tell  you,  so  I  thought  I  ought  to.  You  see,  I'm 
an  agnostic. 

[The  other  two  ladies  look  shocked  and  depre 
cating.] 

WHITE.  Oh,  Miss  Wright,  you  oughtn't  to 
tell  such  things  on  yourself.  Nobody  would 
know  if  you  didn't  tell. 

WRIGHT.  But  I  want  'em  to  know.  I  read 
Darwin  and  Herbert  Spencer  and  Huxley.  I've 
read  the  "  Origin  of  Species  "  and  I'm  in  "  Syn 
thetic  Philosophy  "  now.  I  believe  in  evolution. 
Yes,  I  do,  I  believe  in  evolution. 

SMITH.  Our  minister  says  that  the  theory  of 
evolution  and  the  doctrine  of  divine  inspiration 
are  not  wholly  incompatible  when  you  under 
stand  them  clearly  —  as  he  does  —  and  approach 
them  in  a  spirit  of  reverence  and  devout  seek 
ing  after  truth.  He  preaches  beautiful  sermons 
on  science  and  religion.  He  gives  enlightening 
five-minute  talks  at  the  opening  exercises  of  our 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  every  Thursday  afternoon. 

WRIGHT.  I  s'pose  he  can  give  Herbert  Spen 
cer's  "  Synthetic  Philosophy "  in  a  nut-shell  in 
five  minutes. 

SMITH  [glaring  and  firm].  Yes,  he  can.  Our 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  is  so  active  and  accomplishes 
so  much  work.  I  don't  see  why  Miss  Flora  May 
Rogers  didn't  invite  all  the  members  this  after 
noon  to  join  the  new  organization. 

WHITE.     Well,  it's  Presbyterian. 

SMITH.  I  can't  see  that  that  is  any  objection. 
[Severely.] 

WHITE.  Oh,  no,  of  course,  no  objection, 
209 


SHORT  PLAYS 


only  all  the  Methodist  ladies  and  all  the  Baptist 
ladies  and  all  the  Episcopal  ladies  and  all  the 
U.  P.  ladies  and  all  the  Quaker  ladies  and  even 
some  of  the  Catholic  ladies  —  so  many,  you  see. 

SMITH  [stiffly],  I  shouldn't  expect  her  to 
ask  in  all  the  riff-raff,  but  almost  all  the  important 
ladies  in  town  are  Presbyterian. 

[Door  bell  has  rung  during  her  speech.  En 
ter  Mrs.  Preston-Jones.] 

W.-J.     So  glad  to  be  able  to  come,  Mrs.  White. 

WHITE.     Oh,  it  isn't  my  —  my  — 

W.-J.  That  doesn't  make  the  slightest  differ 
ence  to  me.  I  hope  I  should  recognize  my  so 
cial  duty  and  discharge  it  in  paying  my  compli 
ments  to  the  hostess  of  the  house  if  I  were  in 
vited  by  some  totally  ulterior  person  to  a  hotel  or 
palace  or  a  nunnery. 

WRIGHT.  I  guess  you'd  stop  for  formalities 
with  the  queen  bee  if  you  got  caught  in  a  bee's 
nest. 

W.-J.  Oh,  you  naughty  Hope  Wright,  what 
brings  you  here? 

WRIGHT.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  but  prob 
ably  about  the  same  thing  that  brings  the  rest. 

W.-J.  Pardon  me  but  I  thought  there  was  a 
particular  reason  for  inviting  each  one  of  the 
ladies.  I  imagined  that  each  one  had  some 
especial  gift  that  she  could  offer  as  her  share  of 
the  common  fund  of  pleasure. 

WRIGHT.  You  mean  I  haven't  any  parlor 
tricks. 

W.-J.  I  would  never  put  it  so  baldly,  dear. 
Far  be  it  from  me  ever  to  draw  invidious  com 
parisons.  I  am  so  awfully  modest  about  my  own 

210 


THE  FUTURISTS 


little  talents,  yet  I  feel  that  it  would  be  wrong 
to  deny  my  friends  any  little  pleasure  I  can  af 
ford  them.  So  when  I  am  very  much  urged  I  do 
consent  to  recite  occasionally. 

\White  and  Smith  have  wandered  off  to  the 
end  of  the  stage.] 

WRIGHT.  Well,  you've  made  your  raison 
d'etre  clear.  Why  do  you  suppose  Flora  May 
asked  Mrs.  J.  W.  Smith  to  come? 

W.-J.  Tut,  tut,  how  disrespectful!  To 
speak  of  our  distinguished  guide  in  the  fields  of 
artistic  progress  and  human  thought  without  the 
prefix  of  Miss!  She  would  have  to  have  Mrs. 
S.  because  Mrs.  S.  is  a  leading  light  in  religious 
culture.  Miss  Rogers  desires  to  bring  together 
leading  ladies  in  various  branches. 

[Mrs.  Smith  is  heard  to  say.~\ 

SMITH.  I  like  a  good  red  in  a  carpet.  A  red 
and  green  carpet  brightens  a  room. 

WHITE.  I  love  wood  shades.  And  it's  so 
nice  to  feel  as  if  you  was  treading  on  autumn 
leaves. 

SMITH.     Well,  brown  wears  well. 

WRIGHT.  When  she's  got  'em,  she'll  have  a 
nice  collection  of  missing  links.  Now  why  on 
earth  did  she  invite  Jim  Smith's  wife? 

W.-J.  Shush!  The  house,  my  dear.  It  can 
be  used  so  beautifully  for  entertainments.  We 
can't  have  the  house  without  having  her. 

WRIGHT.  Can't  have  the  nut  without  the 
worm. 

W.-J.  [raising  her  voice  and  advancing  to 
wards  Mrs.  Whlte~\.  I  was  just  saying,  dear 
Mrs.  White,  what  a  perfectly  beautiful  house  you 

21  I 


SHORT  PLAYS 


have.  It  is  so  artistic.  I  have  never  seen  so 
much  taste  displayed.  So  decorative.  Do  you 
do  it  all  yourself?  Wonderfully  aesthetic.  I 
try  to  do  a  little  myself.  I  am  so  fond  of  Japa 
nese  effects.  I  have  a  perfectly  lovely  bird  — 
you  would  adore  it  —  about  three  feet  high,  with 
beautiful  thin  legs,  yellow  legs  —  a  stork  or 
heron  or  something  —  with  long  neck  and  long 
bill,  yellow  legs,  you  know,  and  white  body.  It's 
made  of  cotton  batting  and  the  legs  are  tissue 
paper.  You've  no  idea  how  charming  it  looks 
standing  by  a  bamboo  picture  frame  easel  in  a 
corner  of  the  parlor  with  two  Japanese  fans, 
crossed,  tacked  to  the  wall  above.  [Door-bell 
rings.  Enter  Miss  Rogers,  Mrs.  Scrubbs,  Miss 
Beaton.  Salutations.'} 

ROGERS.  Isn't  it  delightful  that  we  are  all  so 
prompt? 

WRIGHT.  It's  just  because  it's  new.  When 
the  novelty  wears  off  the  same  inevitable  ladies 
will  be  late  to  club  meetings  as  they  have  been  to 
parties  and  missionary  meetings. 

ROGERS  [smiling].     I  grant  the  habit  is  strong. 

WRIGHT.     It  isn't  habit  —  it's  pose. 

ROGERS.  Still  I  venture  to  believe  that  this  is 
a  band  of  thinking,  intelligent,  responsible  women 
who  desire  — 

WRIGHT.  You  seem  to  have  extracted  all  the 
salt  from  the  sea. 

ROGERS.  —  a  band  of  thinking,  intelligent, 
responsible  women  [always  pronounces  it  wimin] 
who  desire  to  develop  themselves,  to  cultivate 
and  foster  and  promote  all  their  talents  and  the 
striving  after  the  ideals  they  feel  to  be  in  their 

212 


THE  FUTURISTS 


own  natures,  all  the  best  and  noblest  and  highest 
that  in  them  lies,  both  for  the  ulterior  benefit  of 
themselves  as  individuals,  and  each  and  every  one 
of  them  as  co-workers,  and  even  more  deeply  and 
earnestly  for  the  benefit  of  those  with  whom  they 
in  any  way  come  into  contact,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  neighborhood  in  which  they  live,  the  com 
munity  they  would  serve,  their  church,  city,  state, 
country,  nation. 

[The  ladies  all  gaze  at  her  In  rapt  admira 
tion.] 

WRIGHT.  Oh,  if  you  think  it's  going  to  do  all 
that.  I  believe  in  evolution,  myself.  It  seems 
to  me  things  go  rather  slow. 

ROGERS.  Slow,  yes!  We  can  not  expect  a 
change  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  but  slowly, 
gradually,  beautifully.  And  from  small  begin 
nings  —  oh,  as  it  were  from  insignificant  begin 
nings.  We  are  but  a  grain  of  mustard  seed. 
[She  says  this  with  unction,  giving  the  impression 
that  she,  large  and  portly,  is  the  mustard  seed] 

WHITE  [to  Mrs.  Smith].  She  makes  you  feel 
your  responsibility  so. 

SMITH  [with  her  pietistic  profundity'].  The 
responsibility  laid  upon  us  is  great  —  we  should 
always  feel  it  as  such. 

ROGERS  [brightening].  It  seemed  fitting  that 
we  should  begin  our  afternoon  with  a  little  diver 
sion  — •  diversion  of  a  beautiful  and  uplifting  char 
acter  —  and  therefore  some  of  our  friends  have 
been  kind  enough  to  consent  to  add  to  the  pleas 
ure  of  the  occasion.  Miss  Beaton  has  succumbed 
to  our  urging  and  will  sing. 

[Miss  Beaton  looks  scared  and  flustered.] 
213 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SCRUBBS.  Is  everybody  here?  Don't  you 
think  we  ought  to  wait  till  everybody's  here? 

ROGERS.  I  think  everybody  is  here  except 
Mrs.  Mellimore  and  perhaps  it  would  be  an  ex 
cellent  precedent  both  for  ourselves  and  for  all 
future  ladies'  clubs  to  open  our  exercises  promptly. 
[Very  •ponderously  and  then  smiling.]  Miss 
Beaton,  will  you? 

[Miss  Beaton  goes  to  the  piano.  They  all 
seat  themselves  in  politely  attentive  atti 
tudes.  She  sings  in  a  high,  thin,  quavering 
voice  "  Sweet  Fiolets."  While  she  is  singing 
the  doorbell  rings  loudly.  Mrs.  Mellimore 
wafts  herself  in.  General  disturbance. 
The  hostess  rises  to  get  Mrs.  Mellimore 
a  chair.  Glances  among  the  ladies.  Miss 
Beaton  finishes  "Sweet  Violets."  Ap 
plause.] 

W.-J.  Oh,  Miss  Beaton,  that  was  so  charm 
ing!  What  a  divine  gift  is  the  lyric  expression 
of  song.  How  poor  and  weak  and  ineffectual 
does  elocution  seem  beside  it.  I  often  say  when 
people  are  kind  enough  to  compliment  me  upon 
my  own  little  talent,  oh,  if  I  could  only  choose! 
[She  shakes  her  head  as  words  fail  to  express  the 
fulness  of  her  meaning  and  emotion.~\ 

SCRUBBS  [in  a  low  tone,  pugnaciously  consol 
atory].  We  enjoyed  it  so  much,  Miss  Beaton. 
Your  singing  was  beautiful.  Too  bad  to  have  it 
ruined  by  people  coming  in  late.  I  was  afraid  it 
would  be  that  way.  I  told  Miss  Rogers  so. 
Such  a  racket! 

WRIGHT.  You're  a  daisy,  Miss  Beaton.  The 
song  was  a  daisy. 

214 


THE  FUTURISTS 


MELLIMORE  [floating  up  —  offering  her  hand 
languidly].  Daisy?  Wasn't  it  about  violets? 
[To  Miss  Beaton.]  So  good  of  you  to  sing. 
Violets  are  sweet  —  but  oh,  lilies  or  sunflowers! 
They  are  too  utterly  —  too  utterly  —  Couldn't 
you,  dear,  find  a  song  about  a  lily  or  a  sunflower? 
And  then  design  a  gown  like  the  flower  —  orange 
silk,  for  instance,  like  the  sunflower  —  with  per 
haps  green  sleeves  to  represent  the  leaves,  and 
then  you  would  carry  one  —  oh,  just  one  very 
large  sunflower  —  to  have  it  all  completely  con 
sistent  and  aesthetic.  Ah,  it  would  be  too  ut 
terly  adorable ! 

ROGERS.  Now  that  we  are  all  here  and  have 
listened  with  so  much  appreciation  to  Miss  Bea 
ton's  music,  shall  we  proceed  to  business  and 
leave  the  rest  of  the  entertainment  till  the  end  of 
the  meeting,  or  shall  we  have  it  now  ? 

W.-J.  [sweetly  apologetic  and  retiring].  Oh, 
I  shall  be  so  glad  to  omit  it  altogether  if  the 
ladies  think  they  haven't  time. 

WRIGHT.  Let's  put  the  entertainment  off  for 
the  dessert  and  get  to  the  business  now. 

SCRUBBS.  My  experience  in  the  D.  A.  R.  is 
that  if  you  get  to  business  you  never  get  back. 
So  have  the  entertainment  now  and  make  sure 
of  it. 

WHITE.  Ain't  there  time  for  both?  I'm  sure 
you  don't  have  to  hurry  off. 

ROGERS.  Very  well,  then,  we  will  proceed 
with  the  entertainment.  Mrs.  Weston- Jones,  will 
you? 

W.-J.  Oh,  I  feel  absolutely  wicked  to  take 
your  valuable  time.  And  I  feel  so  small  and  fu- 

215 


SHORT  PLAYS 


tile  and  inadequate  after  the  beautiful  singing. 
[Then  in  her  most  professional  voice.]  I  have 
selected  for  my  recitation  this  afternoon  a  little 
thing  with  which  you  are  all  familiar,  a  simple 
little  story  told  in  verse  —  simple  yet  touching 
and  with  the  human  appeal  that  must  speak  with 
no  uncertain  accent  to  the  hearts  of  all.  And 
though  a  simple  story,  familiar  to  many  of  us, 
yet  never  can  it  lose  its  charm.  Ladies,  I  will 
recite  the  little  poem,  "  Curfew  Must  Not  Ring 
To-night." 

[She  recites  it  preferably  with  her  back  to  the 
audience  and  her  own  audience  in  a  semi 
circle  in  front  of  her  and  facing   the  real 
audience.     Mrs.  White  sniffles  audibly  and 
at  the  end  of  the  recitation  Mrs.  White  and 
Mrs.  Scrubbs  are  dissolved  in  tears.     Much 
applause  —  so    much   that  Miss   Rogers   is 
afraid  there  is  going  to  be  an  encore.     She 
rises  and  stems  the  current.] 
ROGERS  [impressively  —  always  impressively]. 
While  we  all  understand  that  Mrs.  Weston-Jones 
has  wonderful  elocutionary  talent,  I  am  sure  that 
we  must  feel  that  the  exhibit  she  has  just  made 
of  it  is  of  a  particularly  high  order.     For  my 
self,  I  can  not  help  realizing  deeply  that  this  is 
due  to  the  importance,  the  solemnity,  the  spir 
itual  significance  of  the  occasion.      [More  lightly.] 
And  now  that  we  have  enjoyed  the  beautiful  en 
tertainment  these  two   ladies  have   provided  so 
generously  — 

WRIGHT.     Got  over  the  frills. 
MELLIMORE.     Oh,  Mrs.  Weston-Jones,  truly 
you  are  —  you  are  so  intense ! 

216 


THE  FUTURISTS 


ROGERS.  We  will  now  proceed  to  the  busi 
ness  of  the  afternoon  which  as  you  know  is  the 
organization  of  ourselves  into  the  nucleus  of  a 
society.  It  may  be  well  before  proceeding 
further,  ladies,  to  review  the  situation,  to  explain 
some  truths,  tendencies,  and  indications  that  have 
been  so  deeply  impressing  themselves  upon  some 
of  us.  We  are  now  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
we  are  in  the  cumulative  initiation  of  a  move 
ment,  we  are  pioneers  in  new  fields  of  labor,  the 
richness  of  which  are  as  yet  unexplored  and  un 
dreamed  of.  A  great  spiritual  breath  has  been 
passing  over  the  country,  through  the  civilized 
world,  one  might  almost  say,  and  awakening  the 
women  —  yes,  ladies,  I  repeat,  the  women  [pro 
nounces  it  always  very  carefully  wimin"]  of  the 
land.  They  are  no  longer  content  to  be  house 
hold  drudges  or  the  futile,  vain,  foolish  play 
things  of  the  lords  in  houses  that  are  mere  habita 
tions —  no,  they  are  seeking  after  the  arts,  they 
are  desirous  of  cultivating  themselves,  they  would 
themselves  be  and  they  would  fill  their  houses 
with  manifestations  of  beauty  and  goodness. 
Beauty,  ladies,  the  decorative  female  —  decora 
tive  actively  and  passively,  subjectly  and  objec 
tively  —  decorative  as  to  herself  and  as  to  her 
home  and  everything  she  touches  —  the  decora 
tive  female  is  no  longer  a  dream  of  Tennyson  and 
Ruskin,  but  she  is  an  accomplished  fact. 

WRIGHT  [in  a  loud  whisper  to  Mrs.  Scrubbs~\. 
Well,  I've  heard  of  accomplished  musicians  but 
I  never  heard  —  but,  yes,  she's  right  —  the  deco 
rative  female  is  an  accomplished  fact. 

ROGERS.  We  ladies  of  the  Victorian  era  can 
217 


SHORT  PLAYS 


not  tell  what  we  owe  to  Tennyson  and  Ruskin. 
They  are  the  Castor  and  Pollux  of  Victorian 
Rome,  as  it  were,  they  are  the  Moses  and  Aaron 
of  Victorian  womanhood  — 

WRIGHT  [interrupting].  Do  you  know,  Miss 
Rogers,  I  don't  think  so  much  of  those  two.  I'd 
call  them  —  well,  the  ladies-maid  and  housemaid 
of  the  Victorian  menage. 

ROGERS.  My  dear,  it  will  be  long  before 
Ruskin's  influence  wanes,  if  ever.  His  doctrines 
of  femininity  and  of  the  home  will  be  inculcated  in 
young  women  of  the  future  generation  and  of 
future  generations. 

WRIGHT.  I  bet  they'll  kick  over  the  traces, 
too.  Just  wait  till  there  is  a  reaction  against 
Papa  Ruskin  and  his  cap  and  apron  strings.  He's 
the  Anglican  progenitor  of  feminine  indirect  in 
fluence. 

ROGERS.  My  dear,  I  understand  he's  used 
now  as  a  text-book  in  the  colleges  for  young 
ladies. 

WRIGHT.     Oh,  what  retribution ! 

SMITH.     Colleges  for  young  women  —  humph ! 

WRIGHT.  Don't  you  believe  in  them,  Mrs. 
Smith  ?  It's  what  we  are  all  coming  to. 

SMITH.  Believe  in  them?  Believe  in  having 
my  little  Janie's  mind  contaminated  by  philosophy 
and  higher  mathematics?  Some  day  I  hope  she 
may  become  a  mother ! 

WRIGHT.     I  can't  see  any  objection. 

MELLIMORE.  If  they  would  only  teach  culture 
in  women's  colleges.  But  I  understand  they  teach 
a  dreadful  thing  called  political  economy. 

218 


THE  FUTURISTS 


WRIGHT.  It  isn't  so  dreadful.  It's  just  a  sort 
of  log-house  in  the  clearing,  Mrs.  Mellimore. 

SCRUBBS.  I  would  rather  see  my  daughter  in 
a  nunnery  than  let  her  go  to  college.  I  shall 
send  her  to  Europe  to  study  music  and  German. 

SMITH.  Women  are  aping  men  when  they 
want  to  go  to  college.  Anything  but  the  strong- 
minded,  masculine  woman.  [She  being  extremely 
masculine  and  strong-minded.] 

WRIGHT  [suggestively].  Well,  like  the  poor, 
she  has  always  been  with  us.  Oh,  I  grant  you 
there  will  be  a  period  when  colleges  will  turn 
women  into  mental  processes,  but  that  will  pass  in 
the  course  of  a  few  hundred  years  perhaps  and 
women  will  learn  to  take  education  with  a  grain 
of  salt,  that  is  humor  —  humor  is  the  mental 
salt  of  life  —  and  with  imagination,  which  is  the 
wine  of  life. 

ROGERS.  Higher  education  for  women  is  too 
radical  a  step,  a  foolish  and  mistaken  step  to 
wards  anarchy  —  anarchy  of  the  home  —  I  may 
be  old-fashioned  — 

[Cries  of  "  Oh,  no,  indeed,  you  are  not,"  etc., 
from  all  the  ladies] 

ROGERS.  —  too  old-fashioned  but  I  can  not 
help  regarding  it  so. 

W.-J.  Oh,  you  are  too  broad-minded  and 
moderate,  Miss  Rogers ! 

ROGERS.  As  I  was  about  to  say,  this  wonder 
ful  movement,  this  awakening,  this  spiritual 
breath  that  is  sweeping  over  the  land,  this  psychic 
atmosphere  that  we  are  conscious  or  unconscious 
of,  has  come  to  its  fruition,  of  expansion,  of  ac- 

219 


SHORT  PLAYS 


tive  development,  and  ladies  everywhere  are  form 
ing  themselves  into  societies.  Already  these  re 
ceptive  followers  of  Ruskin  are  absorbed  in  house 
hold  decoration.  They  take  the  simplest  things 
and  transform  them  into  objects  of  adorn 
ment. 

WRIGHT.  Yes,  it's  the  day  when  you  can't 
call  a  spade  a  spade  but  a  parlor  ornament 

ROGERS.  Miss  Wright,  if  you  will  kindly  de 
sist  from  interruption  there  will  be  abundant 
time  for  discussion  later.  This  room  is  an  ex 
ample  of  what  we  all  see  in  each  other's  homes, 
of  the  possibilities  in  the  simplest  articles  when 
applied  to  decoration.  But  we  have  been  grop 
ing  along  as  individuals,  now  we  come  to  the  time 
for  banding  ourselves  together,  to  work  in  ac 
cord,  in  unison,  for  the  best  good  of  each  other 
and  of  the  many,  to  develop  our  tastes,  to  foster 
the  highest  ideals,  to  nurture  taste  and  culture 
and  mental  activity  that  is  becoming  in  a  woman 
—  for  that  purpose,  we,  a  little  group  of  earnest 
women,  are  gathered  together. 

{The  ladies  are  much  impressed,  almost  carried 
away.  They  nod  and  whisper  to  each  other 
their  deep  approval.] 

MELLIMORE.  You  have  so  eloquently  ex 
pressed  what  we  all  feel.  Only  I  wish  you  might 
have  added  to  the  prophets  of  culture  and  poetry 
the  name  of  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde.  I  feel  that  the 
mosaic  mantle  of  Ruskin  has  fallen  upon  his 
shoulders  and  with  a  single  sunflower  in  his  hand, 
he  will  lead  us  on  to  victory. 

W.-J.  You  have  indeed  expressed  our 
thoughts  more  nobly  than  we  could  have  expressed 

220 


THE  FUTURISTS 


them.  It  is  difficult  after  such  a  flight  of  —  such 
a  flight  of  real  oratory  to  proceed  to  such  a  hum 
drum  thing  as  business. 

WRIGHT.  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  open  my 
head  again,  may  I  ask  what  all  are  we  up  to? 
Just  what  is  the  object?  I  like  to  have  things 
definite.  You  know  I'm  scientific. 

ROGERS.     We  are  going  to  organize. 

WRIGHT.     Organize  what? 

ROGERS.     Ourselves. 

WRIGHT.     What  for? 

SCRUBBS.     To  study  history. 

W.-J.  For  private  theatricals  —  Howells' 
farces,  perhaps. 

BEATON.     A  ladies'  musical  club. 

SMITH.     To  spread  an  interest  in  missions. 

WHITE.     China  painting  and  wood  carving. 

MELLIMORE.  Culture  —  the  analysis  of  the 
intense. 

WRIGHT.  Seems  a  little  vague  yet.  Maybe 
I'll  make  out  later. 

SMITH.  We  shall  have  a  president,  vice-presi 
dent,  secretary,  treasurer,  and  chairmen  of  vari 
ous  committees. 

WRIGHT.  Isn't  that  nice  —  then  we  can  all  be 
officers  before  the  members  are  asked  to  join. 
That's  the  way  to  get  up  a  club,  fix  it  up  to  suit 
yourselves  and  then  invite  in  the  herd  to  do  the 
work  and  pay  expenses. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  Miss  Wright,  how  delight 
ful  ironical  you  are ! 

SMITH.  We  ought  to  have  organization.  I 
believe  in  thorough  organization.  Complete, 
strong  organization  is  like  the  foundation  of  a 

221 


SHORT  PLAYS 


building.  We  must  not  build  on  sand.  And  we 
must  be  splendidly  officered. 

WRIGHT.  With  ourselves  to  choose  from  we 
couldn't  help  that. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  Miss  Wright,  how  excru 
ciatingly  ironical  you  are ! 

SMITH.     We  must  first  choose  officers. 

SCRUBBS.  Oh,  I  think  we  ought  to  have  a  con 
stitution  first.  That  is  the  first  thing  men  al 
ways  do. 

SMITH.  We  can't  have  a  constitution  until  we 
have  officers. 

SCRUBBS.  How  in  the  world  can  you  have  of 
ficers  till  you  have  a  constitution  that  tells  you 
what  officers  to  have?  I  am  sure  the  constitu 
tion  of  the  United  States  was  the  first  thing  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers  —  I  mean  the  founders  —  did. 
General  Washington  and  Andrew  Jackson  and  the 
rest  —  why  of  course  they  sat  right  down  and 
framed  the  constitution.  Any  lady  in  the  D.  A. 
R.  will  tell  you  that. 

SMITH.  Perhaps  the  ladies  of  the  D.  A.  R. 
have  had  more  experience  than  the  ladies  of  the 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  or  the  ladies  of  the  Ladies' 
Home  Missionary  Society  or  the  Ladies'  Foreign 
Missionary  Society  or  the  Ladies'  Auxiliary  for 
Church  Extension  or  the  Ladies'  Freedman's  Aid 
or  the  Bible  Society  or  the  Ladies'  Branch  for 
the  Amelioration  of  the  Orphans  and  Half 
Orphans  of  Deceased  Missionaries  or  the  Ladies' 
Extension  of  the  Society  for  the  Support  of  Su 
perannuated  Ministers.  [Draws  a  long  breath.~\ 
I  have  held  office  in  all  of  these  worthy  organi 
zations.  I  may  say  I  have  a  little  experience.  I 

222 


THE  FUTURISTS 


am  willing  to  leave  it  to  the  ladies  present 
whether  my  opinion  and  advice  are  valuable  or 
not. 

W.-J.  If  you  will  permit  a  very  humble  lay 
man  to  express  a  very  humble  opinion  may  I  say 
that  it  seems  hardly  proper,  hardly  delicate  and 
feminine  for  ladies  to  be  too  deeply  interested  in 
such  masculine  affairs  as  a  constitution  and  offi 
cers.  It  seems  to  me  that  Lord  Tennyson  and 
Mr.  Ruskin  would  hardly  counsel  and  direct  the 
feminine  mind  to  such  extremes. 

MELLIMORE.  I  feel  quite  subtly  and  respon- 
sively  sure  that  the  aesthetic  school  would  not 
consider  a  constitution  beautiful.  What,  oh, 
what  is  there  in  a  constitution  that  is  graceful, 
poetic,  or  intense? 

WRIGHT.  A  constitution  is  not  at  all  evolu 
tionary. 

ROGERS.  But,  ladies,  we  must  have  a  consti 
tution.  All  the  newest  organizations  of  ladies' 
societies  have  them. 

SMITH.  A  constitution  is  like  a  brake  on  the 
slippery  wheels  of  radicalism. 

WRIGHT.     And  the  brake  gets  rusty. 

W.-J.  Oh,  dear,  you  make  it  sound  like 
woman's  rights. 

WRIGHT.  Well,  I  don't  see  why  it  shouldn't. 
I  believe  in  woman's  rights. 

W.-J.     Oh,  Hope! 

[The  ladies  are  all  scandalized.  Chorus  of 
"  Oh,  Miss  Wright."} 

WRIGHT.  Yes,  I  do.  I  believe  in  woman's 
rights,  and  what  is  more,  I'd  just  like  to  vote 
myself.  [Chorus  of  "  ohs."]  I'd  like  to  do 

223 


SHORT  PLAYS 


things  like  a  human  being  and  not  like  an  unde 
veloped,  embryonic  thing.  And  I'd  like  to  work 
and  earn  my  own  living  and  not  be  doled  out  a  five- 
dollar  bill  at  a  time  from  some  harem-keeping 
father  or  husband  or  brother.  I'd  like  to  earn 
wages  like  a  man  and  get  the  same  pay  for  the 
same  work. 

W.-J.  Oh,  my  dear  Hope,  for  a  young  lady 
to  work  for  her  living,  how  unlady-like! 

MELLIMORE.  One  can  speak  of  the  sordid 
thing  called  money  only  with  the  utmost  disincli 
nation  and  aversion,  but  it  seems  especially  shock 
ing  to  refer  to  it  in  connection  with  the  delicate 
poetry  of  femininity. 

ROGERS.  For  a  young  lady  of  respectable 
parentage  to  labor  outside  her  own  home  is  per 
nicious  to  all  the  standards  of  civilization. 

SMITH.     It  is  a  denial  of  holy  law. 

WRIGHT.     All  the  same  it's  coming. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  how  infinitely  more  sublime 
it  would  be  if  we  would  endeavor  to  reach  a 
higher  plane  of  artistic  appreciation.  If  we 
would  exist  instead  of  working.  If  we  would 
but  breathe  instead  of  eating.  To  achieve  per 
fection  of  line  —  of  just  one  straight  line  —  to 
produce  poetry  in  the  hang  of  a  skirt,  to  occa 
sion  music  in  the  bend  of  an  elbow,  to  realize  art 
in  the  contour  of  a  nose,  to  blend  one's  soul  with 
the  soul  of  a  sunflower ! 

SCRUBBS.  I  don't  know  that  I  catch  your 
meaning  but  I  think  if  a  girl  works  she'll  lose  her 
femininity. 

WRIGHT.  Maybe  she'd  just  as  well  lose  a  lit 
tle  of  it  and  her  bustle,  too. 

224 


THE  FUTURISTS 


ROGERS.  Ladies,  I  hope  you  will  not  repeat 
this  conversation.  While  we  must  grant  to  each 
and  every  one  the  privilege  of  individual  opin 
ion,  it  would  be  disastrous  to  have  the  extremely 
peculiar  views  of  one  member  become  known  and 
perhaps  attached  by  an  inconsiderate  public  to  all 
of  us.  As  the  leaders  of  the  thought  of  the  day 
we  can  not  afford  to  be  considered  peculiar, 
strong-minded,  or  possessing  strangely  unfeminine 
ideas. 

WRIGHT.  Well,  you  know  ideas  change. 
What's  one  man's  bucking  steer  to-day  is  another 
man's  meat  to-morrow. 

ROGERS  \jscverelj].  There  are  some  ideas 
that  will  remain  forever  distasteful  to  truly  deli 
cate  and  refined  women.  I  believe  I  voice  the 
sentiments  of  all  the  ladies  present  except  Miss 
Wright,  when  I  say  female  suffrage  is  one  of 
these  distasteful  and  pernicious  ideas. 

\They  all  nod  and  murmur  approval.] 

SCRUBBS.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  if  we 
passed  resolutions  disapproving  of  certain  things? 
The  D.  A.  R.  frequently  pass  resolutions. 

SMITH.  We  ought,  as  a  moral  influence  in 
the  community,  to  which  all  eyes  are  turned,  to 
place  ourselves  on  record  as  upholding  all  ethi 
cal  principles  and  disapproving  certain  deleterious 
practises.  Smoking,  for  instance.  I  think  we 
ought  to  protest  against  smoking.  Such  a  meas 
ure  on  our  part  would  have  great  weight  with 
gentlemen.  Those  who  are  given  to  die  filthy 
habit  would  be  discouraged,  those  who  abstain 
would  be  strengthened  by  our  moral  support. 

225 


SHORT  PLAYS 


WHITE.  But  don't  you  think  gentlemen  enjoy 
smoking  ? 

SMITH  [severely].  The  reason  men  persist  in 
this  bad  habit  is  that  they  are  pampered  by  fool 
ish  women  in  it.  My  husband  never  smoked. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  one  can  not  think  of  the 
smoking  of  cigars  or  pipes  as  lovely  or  uplift 
ing  or  beautiful.  The  practise  seems  so  —  par 
don  the  word  —  so  low.  Suppose  we  add  the 
suggestion  to  gentlemen  that  instead  of  smoking 
they  should  —  they  should  burn  incense. 

WRIGHT.  Well,  I  like  the  smell  of  a  good 
cigar.  And  men  look  so  cozy  and  comfortable 
smoking  after  dinner.  Women  never  look  cosy 
and  comfortable.  How  can  they?  How  can 
you  be  cozy  and  comfortable  in  a  corset  and  bus 
tle?  You  can't  exactly  relax  when  you're  on  top 
of  things  that  feel  as  if  you  were  sitting  on  a 
mastodon's  skeleton.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  sur 
prised  if  women  didn't  wear  corsets  some  day  or 
bustles  either.  And  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
they  smoked.  I'd  like  to  smoke,  myself.  Yes,  I 
would,  I  know  I  would.  Some  day,  I  bet,  after 
dinner,  cigarettes  will  be  passed  to  women  just 
the  same  as  to  the  men. 

W.-J.     What  would  Lord  Tennyson  say? 

WRIGHT.  He  smoked  the  vilest  black  cigars 
himself,  all  the  time,  so  I  s'pose  he'd  disapprove. 
His  kind  of  man  would.  He  belonged  to  the 
band  of  the  monopolizing  male. 

WHITE.  Are  you  going  to  pass  a  resolution 
against  smoking?  Because  I  don't  believe  my 
husband  would  let  me  join  a  society  that  was  down 
on  smoking. 

226 


THE  FUTURISTS 


SMITH.  We  cannot  countenance  smoking  be 
cause  of  the  deplorable  weakness  of  one  man. 

ROGERS.  We  are  a  little  group  of  earnest 
women.  All  eyes  will  be  fastened  on  us  for 
guidance. 

MELLIMORE.  Couldn't  you  —  couldn't  you 
suggest  incense  to  him? 

WHITE.  If  you  all  feel  that  way  about  it,  I 
think  I'd  better  not  join. 

SMITH.  You  ought  not  to  give  in  to  your  hus 
band's  infirmity. 

WHITE.  But  it  don't  seem  such  an  awful  in 
firmity  to  me. 

SMITH.    //  is. 

W.-J.  We  ought  to  set  our  faces  like  flint 
against  evil. 

MELLIMORE.  Couldn't  you  divert  his  atten 
tion  to  aesthetic  culture? 

ROGERS.  We  must  uphold  the  morality  of  the 
community. 

SCRUBBS.     We've  got  to  disapprove  of  things. 

WHITE  [almost  crying].  Well,  if  James  and 
me  are  so  bad,  I  won't  lower  you  all  by  being  in 
your  society,  then.  And  I  guess  you  needn't 
count  on  my  house  for  your  old  entertainments, 
neither. 

ROGERS.  Oh,  there,  Mrs.  White,  you  mustn't 
feel  that  way. 

WHITE.  Well,  I  do.  [They  all  rise  and  try 
to  pacify  her.~\ 

W.-J.  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  White,  we  couldn't  pos 
sibly  get  along  without  you.  It  isn't  your  house 
—  it's  you  —  your  decorative  nature  that's  so 
valuable. 

227 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SCRUBBS.  Let's  leave  out  the  resolution  about 
smoking  and  put  one  in  about  divorce. 

SMITH.  As  church  members,  all  in  good  and 
regular  standing,  we  must  all  disapprove  of  di 
vorce. 

WRIGHT.  I  don't  —  but  then  I'm  an  agnostic 
and  scientific. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  the  wedding  ceremony 
could  be  made  so  adorably  beautiful  with  cherubic 
choir  boys,  seraphic  lilies,  heavenly  candles,  with 
all  the  solemn  pomp  and  pageantry  —  if  people 
would  only  remember  the  beauty  of  the  scenery 
of  this  ceremony  they  would  be  too  happy  ever 
to  want  to  be  divorced  unless  it  was  to  marry 
some  one  else  and  have  it  all  repeated. 

WRIGHT.  It  ought  to  be  performed  by  a  mag 
istrate. 

MELLIMORE.     Oh,  the  gods  of  beauty  forbid! 

WRIGHT.  It  ought  to  be  managed  by  the 
state  and  lots  of  'em  oughtn't  to  be  allowed. 

SMITH.  Allowed?  The  holy  sacrament  of 
marriage  allowed? 

WRIGHT.  Holy,  your  grandmother.  It's  bi 
ological. 

[  The  ladies  all  protest.  Exclamations  of  "  Oh, 
how  dreadful."] 

WRIGHT  [grinning'}.  Yes,  biological,  and  so 
is  divorce  usually. 

W.-J.  I  am  only  a  poor  literary  person  with 
out  any  knowledge  of  science  but  I  have  feeling! 
If  the  ladies  are  so  insensitive  to  the  misfortunes 
under  which  I  am  laboring,  if  the  ladies  wish 
to  pass  a  resolution  disapproving  of  divorce,  if 
one  of  them  compares  it  and  marriage  to  biology, 

228 


THE  FUTURISTS 


which  I  understand  is  the  study  of  bugs  and 
beetles,  then  I  feel,  ladies,  I  feel  that  I  must  with 
draw.  [She  rises.  General  consternation.] 

WRIGHT.  I  guess  it  isn't  worth  while  for  me 
to  try  to  explain  my  point,  but  marriage,  you 
know,  is  —  er  —  is,  well,  just  to  have  babies. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  my  dear  young  person, 
what  a  —  indeed,  what  a  gross  way  to  speak  of 
the  —  the  beautiful  psychic  blending  of  two 
souls.  And,  if  you  must  speak  of  the  —  the  ma 
terial  result,  why  not  use  a  more  refined  ex 
pression?  Please  call  them  infants,  at  least. 

W.-J.  Pray,  ladies,  pray,  pardon  me  and  I 
will  withdraw. 

ROGERS.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Weston-Jones,  there 
has  been  a  most  unfortunate  misunderstanding. 
Of  course,  you  must  not  go. 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  Mrs.  Weston-Jones,  remain 
with  us.  You  love  beautiful  things  and  you  are  so 
intense. 

SCRUBBS.     You  mustn't  go. 

\_All  of  them,  "  Oh,  no,  indeed  not."     She  is 
mollified  and  reseats  herself.'] 

W.-J.  If  you  insist  that  I  am  of  a  little  value 
to  you,  and  the  work. 

WRIGHT.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  ex 
cuse  me.  I've  got  some  gardening  I  want  to  do 
before  sunset.  I  don't  exactly  see  what  you  are 
driving  at.  Maybe  later  when  you  get  started  I 
can  come  in  with  the  herd  and  do  some  work. 
Au  revoir.  You'll  find  me  when  you  want  me. 
Of  course  I'll  be  glad  to  work. 

[She  goes  out  and  all  of  them  really  gladly  say 
good-by.~\ 

229 


SHORT  PLAYS 


ROGERS.     She  thinks  this  is  not  work. 

WRIGHT  [calling  back].  Work  is  to  him  who 
thinks  it  is.  A uf  wiedersehen. 

MELLIMORE.  Do  you  know  that  young  per 
son  is  in  her  most  singular  and  impossible  way 
really  very  intense? 

WHITE.  Ain't  it  a  nice  thing  to  do,  don't  you 
think,  to  take  up  wood-carving?  Under  a  regu 
lar  teacher,  I  mean. 

W.-J.  Oh,  don't  you  think  that  china-painting 
would  be  much  more  practical?  Now,  really, 
Miss  Flora  May,  don't  you  think  so  ? 

MELLIMORE.  Ah,  but  lectures  on  art!  Oh, 
think  of  the  wonderful  opportunities  to  hear  the 
artistic  message  from  the  lips  of  gentlemen  who 
are  intense !  Mr.  Herbert  Ingraham  Welholland 
Ives,  Mr.  Edwin  Rudolford  Blessington  Fenwick 
of  England,  they  could  be  induced  for  a  diminu 
tive  consideration  to  come  over  and  talk  to  us. 

SCRUBBS.  I  think  first  of  all  we  ought  to 
choose  colors.  I  would  suggest  old  gold  and  pea 
cock  blue. 

W.-J.  I  think  we  ought  to  decide  at  once  upon 
a  motto.  A  motto  means  so  much  to  outsiders. 

MELLIMORE.  We  must  certainly  adopt  a 
motto  in  French.  French  is  the  tongue  of  cul 
ture  and  mottoes. 

SMITH.  We  need  organization.  Thorough 
organization. 

WHITE.  We'd  ought  to  have  a  nice  name.  I 
heard  of  a  club  in  Indianapolis  called  the  Young 
Ladies'  Society  for  Culture  and  Art.  It's  just 
called  the  Y.  L.  S.  C.  A.  And  there's  another 
in  Terryhut  named  the  Ladies'  Culture  in  Art, 

230 


THE  FUTURISTS 


Drama,  and  Literature  Society,  the  L.  C.  A.  D. 
L.  S. 

W.-J.  It  would  be  so  bright  if  we  could  get  a 
name  that  would  make  initials  spelling  something. 
Like  Ladies'  Art  and  Culture  Association  —  that 
would  spell  L.  A.  C.  A.  and  we  could  be  called  the 
Laca. 

MELLIMORE.  Laca.  It  has  a  mellifluous  mel 
ody.  And  that  means  so  much.  Oh,  the  beauty 
of  sound  speaks  volumes.  . 

WHITE.  I  wish  we  could  study  travel.  I 
just  adore  travel  books. 

SCRUBBS.  It  seems  to  me  we  ought  to  take  up 
history.  The  ladies  of  the  D.  A.  R.  know  so 
much  history. 

ROGERS.  Ladies,  it  seems  to  me  we  might 
have  papers  on  all  these  subjects.  We  might  give 
at  least  one  meeting,  for  instance,  to  American 
history.  And  perhaps  another  to  a  consideration 
of  China. 

W.-J.     China-painting  —  delightful! 

ROGERS.  Well,  no,  I  was  referring  to  the  em 
pire.  We  might  give  a  whole  meeting  to  be 
nighted  China. 

SMITH.  We  could  have  a  missionary  to  ad 
dress  us. 

\_Maid  appears  at  the  door  with  a  tray.~\ 

WHITE.  Oh,  there  are  the  refreshments. 
Should  I  tell  her  to  wait? 

W.-J.     Couldn't  we  adjourn? 

ROGERS.     Ladies,  shall  we  have  our  organiza 
tion  at  another  meeting,  then?     All  those  in  favor 
of  adjournment,  please  say  I. 
[CURTAIN.] 
231 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES. 

PERSONS.  The  Man,  the  Girl,  and  the  Little 
Folk. 

TIME.     The  afternoon  of  Hallowe'en. 

PLACE.  The  top  of  a  hill  where  there  is  a 
scattered  clump  of  tall  old  pine  trees  and  in 
the  background  a  thicker  growth  of  sturdy 
beeches.  The  hill,  sloping  down  in  front,  has 
been  partly  cleared  away  generations  ago 
and  now  gives  a  view  across  and  up  and  down 
a  broad  cultivated  valley;  on  the  opposite  hill 
are  the  great  houses  of  rich  estates;  far  to  the 
south  the  valley  shades  into  a  big  smoky  city. 
A  girl  and  man  appear  walking  slowly  and  talk' 
ing. 

HE.  This  day  is  truly  like  "  apples  of  gold 
in  pitchers  of  silver  "  1  Well,  a  man  has  a  right 
to  his  portion  of  joy  and  I  regard  loafing  in  the 
afternoon  as  perfectly  legitimate.  Oh,  I  have 
Biblical  sanction  for  it — "and  the  evening  and 
the  morning  were  the  first  day."  There  is  no 
mention  made  of  the  afternoon  and  without  doubt 
work  is  suspended  then. 

SHE.  Of  course  you  know  who  is  said  to  be 
able  to  cite  Scripture  for  his  own  evil  purposes  I 
Which  remark  doesn't  sound  very  polite  from  a 

233 


SHORT  PLAYS 


person  who  ought  to  be  grateful.  I  wanted  to 
come  awfully.  [She  sits  down  on  a  log.'} 

HE.  And  I  believe  I  knew  you  did  all  the 
while.  Yet  I  spent  the  morning  trying  to  resist 
the  temptation  of  telephoning  you,  and  when  I 
finally  rang  you  up,  I  was  crazy  for  fear  I  would 
be  too  late  and  you'd  have  something  else  on 
hand. 

SHE.  Why  do  you  say  temptation?  Are  you 
running  off  from  something? 

HE  [sitting  down  on  the  further  end  of  the 
log}.  No,  I  am  running  off  to  something. 
[He  smiles  at  her.} 

SHE  [looking  back  among  the  beeches}.  Are 
the  trees  so  dangerous? 

HE.     Not  for  me  —  I  was  thinking  of  you. 

SHE.     They  have  never  hurt  me. 

HE.  Bless  their  hearts,  of  course  not.  But 
I  was  only  thinking  that  it  was  a  little  imperti 
nent  to  ask  you  to  come  out  here.  If  it  had  been 
the  matinee  —  but  I  was  too  selfish  to  sacrifice 
myself  to  four-walled  propriety  on  a  golden  after 
noon  like  this.  A  walk  in  the  woods  is  not  con 
sidered  a  great  treat  by  most  people  and  is  a  lit 
tle  unconventional,  isn't  it?  You  see  I  don't 
know  you  very  well. 

SHE.     Don't  you? 

HE.     Do  I? 

SHE.     Don't  you? 

HE.  Do  I?  That  is  the  question  that  has 
been  puzzling  me  ever  since  I  met  you.  There 
are  people  you  see  always  and  never  know,  and 
there  are  people  you  see  once  and  have  known 
always.  It  is  a  feeling  on  the  border  of  mys- 

234 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 


tery.  Have  I  known  you  in  a  previous  exist 
ence  or  am  I  really  jumping  to  an  end  I  have 
the  right  to  gain  only  through  the  sedate  and  po 
lite  process  of  acquaintance?  Or  do  I  know  you 
through  that  blessed  something  —  call  it  intuitive 
sympathy?  Or  is  it  all  a  mistake?  Maybe  I 
am  just  the  victim  of  my  own  stupid  conceit  and 
don't  understand  you  any  better  than  the  dozens 
of  other  girls  I  meet. 

SHE.     Don't  you  understand  them? 

HE.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  bother  to.  But  about 
you.  Am  I  right  in  feeling  I  know  you?  One 
can  be  foolish  enough  to  make  humiliating  mis 
takes,  you  know. 

SHE.  But  you  are  not  that.  And  —  I  had 
the  same  curious  impression  in  regard  to  you. 

HE.  And  of  course  you  are  not  that  sort. 
[They  both  laugh.  His  'voice  becomes  exultlngly 
firm  as  he  says],  I  am  going  to  trust  to  the  feel 
ing  about  it  then.  Let's  make  a  fire.  [He  rises 
and  begins  to  look  about  for  sticks. ~\  Can't  we 
put  convention  aside  —  make  the  old  gossip  stand 
on  her  head  in  a  corner,  so?  [He  illustrates 
with  a  stick.]  And  begin  as  if  we  were  old 
friends? 

SHE.  I  thought  we  had  begun  that  way. 
Didn't  I  stand  on  the  back  platform  with  you 
coming  out? 

HE.  But  that  might  have  been  because  you 
liked  my  company  better  than  that  of  the  fat 
women  with  their  baskets  inside  the  car.  I  was 
flattered  by  your  preference. 

SHE.  Being  unconventional  with  a  person  is 
a  preference.  I  have  a  much  older  acquaint- 

235. 


ance  with  those  market  women  than  I  have  with 
you.  [She  gets  up  and  helps  him  gather  sticks.] 
Did  you  ever  notice  their  faces  particularly? 
Time  seems  to  have  baked  them  to  a  brown  sto 
lidity  and  the  least  effort  toward  expression  would 
crack  them.  You  wonder  if  the  baked  clay  ex 
terior  hides  any  emotion. 

HE.  Oh,  a  brown  Chinese  sort,  perhaps. 
Yet  I  wonder  if  it  is  not  an  older  and  milder 
and  more  civilized  sensation  than  we  ever  have. 
But  who  are  we  to  judge?  You  and  I?  Why 
we  are  half  savages,  vagabonds,  gypsies  —  at 
least  I  am  and  I  hoped  you  were.  You  see  I  am 
becoming  more  boldly  aggressive,  pretending  to  a 
knowledge  of  you  I  have  no  right  to  possess, 
much  less  to  own.  [She  smiles  at  the  pun.]  But 
you  are  a  gypsy,  aren't  you?  Please  say  you  are! 

SHE  [sits  down  on  a  log.  He  goes  on  gath 
ering  sticks,  breaking  them  up,  heaping  them  and 
building  the  fire  while  she  talks'].  I  suppose  I 
shouldn't  care  for  these  woods  if  I  weren't, 
and  I  do  care  for  them  awfully.  I  know  all  the 
valleys  and  hills  round  here  as  one  knows  the 
corners  of  a  house  one  has  lived  in  always.  I 
don't  mind  confessing  to  you  because  you  are  go 
ing  to  be  as  foolish  about  them  as  I  am. 

HE  [smiling].     I  shouldn't  wonder. 

SHE.  This  never  moving  flock  of  pine  trees 
here  on  this  hill  crest  is  my  lode-star.  I  can  see 
it  from  any  point  for  miles  over  the  other  hills 
across  the  valley.  This  hill  is  high,  you  know, 
and  the  pines,  taller  and  darker  and  in  winter 
fatter  than  the  other  trees,  are  an  easily  detected 
landmark.  Do  you  like  my  view? 

236 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 


HE.  I  had  an  intuition  of  it  when  we  came 
through  the  gate  into  the  woods  from  the  trav 
eled  road.  [Regarding  it  critically  .~\  Yes, 
[slowly]  it's  adequate.  It  seems  to  contain 
everything  —  a  compact,  well-regulated  little  view 
with  small  corpulent  market-gardens  in  the  fore 
ground  and  in  the  background  stately  hills  with 
several  castles  atop,  and  down  the  valley  at  one 
end  of  the  old  gray  city,  and  up  the  valley  at  the 
other  end  the  dear  farm  country  —  all  not  too  far 
to  suggest  stray  fancies. 

SHE.     I  knew  you  would  notice  the  castles. 

HE.  Of  course,  for  in  one  of  them,  in  the 
top  of  that  tallest  tower  there  is  a  princess  and 
she  is  looking  over  in  this  direction. 

SHE.     An  ogre  has  her  imprisoned? 

HE.  Just,  and  our  fire  will  be  a  beacon  light 
to  her.  Then  she  will  know  she  still  has  friends 
in  the  world  and  the  crickets  will  sing  her  a  cheer- 
fuller  song  when  the  dusk  comes  up  through  the 
grass  and  gathers  in  the  trees  and  bushes. 

SHE.  We  might  send  her  a  message  by  a 
robin. 

HE  [starling  with  a  quick  look  at  her]. 
Never!  Never  1  He  must  be  reserved  as  a  lit 
tle  messenger  only  between  you  and  me.  He  is 
too  nice  to  be  carelessly  employed. 

SHE.  He  is  nice  —  I  might  have  known  he 
would  be  a  little  friend  of  yours.  All  of  life 
seems  nice  to-day. 

HE  [sitting  down  by  her].  Oh,  unusually. 
[After  a  pause. ~\  On  this  sort  of  yellow  day, 
life  runs  around  crying  "  come  and  eat  me,"  like 
your  little  roast  pigs  in  the  story  you  told  me. 

237 


SHORT  PLAYS 


SHE.  Yellow  is  so  soft  and  gracious,  yet  the 
dictionary  merely  says  that  it  is  one  of  the  primi 
tive  and  prismatic  colors,  and  that  united  with 
blue  it  yields  green  and  with  red  it  produces 
orange. 

HE.  I  should  say  that  yellow  maple  leaves 
united  with  blue  sky  yield  joy,  and  with  red  oak 
leaves  produce  delight.  A  full-leaved  glorious 
maple  tree  above  me  on  a  warm  October  day 
seems  a  still,  exquisite,  suspended  altar  from 
which  is  lowered  an  incense  of  joyous  peace  as 
I  walk  beneath  looking  up  into  its  heavenly  suf 
ficiency. 

SHE.  Have  you  noticed  how  towards  dusk 
when  everything  else  is  darkening,  these  fair  ma 
ples  seem  to  catch  the  light  and  hold  it?  Spirits 
of  little  children  must  poise  among  the  branches 
—  they  are  out  earlier  at  night  than  the  older 
ghosts,  you  know,  because  they  have  to  go  to  bed 
earlier,  being  so  young. 

HE.     Did  you  ever  see  a  ghost? 

SHE.     No,  but  I  haven't  given  up  hope. 

HE.  Then  you  probably  will.  But  you  —  I 
dare  not  use  the  words  I'd  like,  I  wonder  if  I'll 
ever  dare?  You  ought  to  see  all  sorts  of  beau 
tiful  and  curious  folk. 

SHE.  These  woods  are  full  of  them,  you 
know  —  the  little  folk.  [Smiling,  she  takes  a 
stick  and  draws  a  fairy  circle. ,]  But  to  see  them 
you  have  to  be  very  happy  and  to  come  at  the 
time  they  like  best  —  which  nobody  knows.  It 
isn't  that  they  are  shy,  but  they  are  very  discrim 
inating  and  haughty.  Still,  I'm  trusting  to  see 

238 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 


them,  for  I'm  very  respectful  toward  them  and  I 
want  to  so  much. 

HE.  And  people  usually  get  what  they  want 
very  much. 

SHE.     Do  you  believe  that? 

HE.  Very  surely,  but  they  don't  always  know 
what  they  desire  and  they  aren't  always  con 
scious  of  the  thing  that  comes.  The  gate  of 
wishes  has  an  intricate  fastening  whose  secret 
many  people  can  not  win  through,  and  those  who 
at  last  find  themselves  on  the  other  side,  some 
times  look  with  strange  eyes  upon  an  unexpected 
country;  some  of  them  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  the 
body  and  some  with  the  eyes  of  the  mind  and 
some  only  with  the  eyes  of  the  soul.  [After  a 
pause. ~\  There  is  something  I  want  awfully,  but 
in  myself  I  lose  faith.  Do  you  suppose  I  ever 
shall  have  it? 

SHE.     Do  you  like  it  well  enough? 

HE.     Yes,  I  like  her  well  enough. 

SHE  [starting  and  staring  at  some  trees  at  the 
side'].  Oh,  did  you  see  anything  then? 

HE.     I   thought   I   did  but   in   these   autumn 

woods 

When  big  oak  leaves  come  softly  sailing  down 
And  birds  still  loiter  for  the  warm  gold  days 
And  rabbits  wildly  skurry  out  of  sight 
And  hallowe'en  is  drawing  on  apace 
And  a  dear  witch  sits  by  you  on  a  log, 
All  sorts  of  things  may  happen  to  your  eyes. 

SHE.  Oh,  hear  the  rustle  of  those  poplar 
leaves!  It  is  the  first  of  all  the  dull  brown 
sounds;  for  the  sounds  in  spring  are  gentle  and 

239 


SHORT  PLAYS 


when  the  breezes  stir  the  leaves  they  yield  a 
music  like  the  color  blue,  but  in  the  fall  the  sound 
grows  stiff  and  like  the  color  brown.  Their 
leaves  will  cling  to  those  wee  oak  trees  till  the 
spring  is  here  and  then  forlorn,  in  a  new  world, 
their  own  life  overpast,  they'll  flutter  in  a  passion 
of  despair  and  wailing,  seem  like  the  unhappy 
spirits  of  unburied  men.  [After  a  pause.] 
Surely  something  stirred  around  and  in  that 
ghostly  blossom  of  the  golden  rod. 

HE.     A  little  hungry  bluebird  hunting  seeds 
Maybe  it  was.     I  like  the  golden  rod 
Fantastic,  pale  and  mystical  as  now 
Better  than  when  it  flaunts  its  hardier  hue. 

SHE.     These  slender  stalks  will  last  the  win 
ter  out, 

And  on  this  hillside  cold  and  lone  and  drear 
The  winds  will  bend  and  beat  them   all  night 
through. 

HE  [looking  wistfully  at  her~\. 
But  now  the  air  is  warm  and  they  content 
As  I  am  in  the  radiance  I  love. 

SHE.     The  romance  of  the  year  seems  gath 
ered  up 

And  strewn  before  our  feet  these  autumn  days. 
No  one  can  miss  it. 

HE.  Even  the  dullest  soul 

Must  stumble  on  it.     It  is  everywhere : ' 
It's  in  the  air  in  color,  scent,  and  sound. 
I  smell  it  in  the  wood-smoke  even  now  — 
That  tenuous  spirit  of  the  old  strong  hills  — 
And  hear  it  from  those  birds  all  winging  south 
From  lands  of  dark  green  pine  and  dark  blue  lake. 

SHE.     I  heard  a  sound. 
240 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 


HE.  From  that  low  hawthorn  bush. 

VOICE 


When  the  night  wind  carries  the  tang  of 

the  woods  — 

Out  on  the  hillside  longing  to  be  — 
Where  the   elves   do  peer   from  their 

flower-leaf  hoods 

Who  will  go  hunting,  go  hunting  with 
me? 

[They  stare  at  each  other,  then  he  starts  to 
his  feet  and  takes  a  step  in  the  direction  of 
the  'voice.'] 

SHE.  Oh,  please  don't  move  —  you'll  frighten 
them  away. 

ANOTHER  VOICE  [singing]. 

When  the  wild  winds  blow  on  dark 

some  nights  — 
Up  in  the  boughs  of  the  gnarled  apple 

tree 
Where  the  gnomes  are  smoking  their 

little  clay  pipes  — 

Who  will  go   climbing,  go  climbing 
with  me? 

[He  sits  down  again  beside  her.] 
SHE.     Isn't  it  kind  of  them  to  come  so  near? 
The  rare  good  little  folk  we've  longed  to  see. 
HE.     But  we  don't  see  them  yet  —  what  did 

you  say? 

That  we  must  bear  the  blessing  of  pure  joy 
And  be  in  the  right  place  at  the  right  time  — 
The  place  and  time  the  little  folk  love  best. 

241 


SHORT  PLAYS 


The  stipulation's  difficult  and  yet 

'Tis  so  with  everything  of  dearest  worth. 

SHE  [absently]. 
One  sees  the  things  his  own  heart  holds  most 

dear. 
HE.     That    wraithlike    labyrinth    of    ancient 

weeds 

Is  nice  enough  to  hold  a  dozen  elves. 
And  in  among  those  thistles  tall  and  fierce 
Lithe  little  brownies  slip  with  purpose  dire  — 
For  they,  the  scamps,  use  thistles  craftily 
To  comb  the  black  cat's  back  and  make  sparks  fly. 
SHE.     Up  in  the  top  of  that  dead  oak  whose 

limbs 

Are  like  the  knuckles  of  a  lame  old  man, 
There  lives  a  serious  owl  and  naughty  sprites 
Tease  him  all  day  what  time  he  tries  to  sleep. 

ANOTHER  VOICE  [singing], 
When  the  moon  rides  high  mid  warlike  clouds  — 
Up  in  the  air  so  far  and  free  — 
Where  the  witches  are  weaving  filmy  shrouds  — 
Who  will  go  sailing,  go  sailing  with  me? 

HE.     They're  coming  nearer,  do  you  see, them 

yet? 

SHE.     No,  but  I  feel  their  presence  very  close. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  yet  the  witching  time. 

HE.     We're  happy,  aren't  we  ?     At  least  I  am. 
To  be  with  you  is  happiness  enough 
To  fill  these  woods  with  spirits  of  delight. 
[He  looks  about  into  the  woods  and  towards 

the  west.] 

This  is  the  blessed  twilight  of  the  year 
And  now  the  silent  twilight  of  the  day, 
The  drop  distilled  from  all  time's  loveliness, 

242 


\ 

THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 

When  in  the  west  the  sky  grows  broad  and  fair 
With  flaming  topaz  light  that  gently  melts 
Into  a  liquid  turquoise  up  above. 
The  robin  sings  his  wistful  twilight  song, 
Then  wee  small  gossip  crickets  will  fill  in 
The  time  till  comes  the  wee  small  haunting  owl. 
SHE.     You    love    these    little    things  ?  —  The 

flight  of  crows, 
The  crickets  — 

HE.  They  are  very  dear  to  me 

In  the  big  woodland  world  I  love  so  well  — 
Only  less  dear  than  are  the  spots  of  light 
Within  the  woodland  shadows  of  your  eyes. 

[He  leans  toward  her  and  looks  deep  into  her 

eyes.~\ 

SHE.     Please  tell  me  what  you  see? 
HE.  A  mystery. 

I  look  through  beauty  —  never  see  the  end 
And  with  my  heavenly  longing  am  content. 
\He  draws  closer,  taking  her  into  his  arms. 
She  seems  to  see  something  in  one  of  the 
hawthorn    bushes    and    whispers    to    him. 
They  smile  and  nod  to  each  other  and  watch 
eagerly. ] 
SHE  [softly]. 

We're  very  happy  at  their  holy  time, 
ANOTHER  VOICE  {singing']. 

When   the   wind's  wild   spirit  lures   to 

roam  — 

Out  on  the  country  roads  are  we  — 
Where  all  vagabonds  are  at  home 
Who  will  go  roving,  go  roving  with 

me? 
[Foice  dies  away  in  the  distance.] 

243 


SHORT  PLAYS 


HE.     We'll  come,  sweet  vagabonds, 
SHE.  We'll  come,  we'll  come. 

The  moon  is  climbing  o'er  the  castle's  tower. 
HE.     She's   hastening   to    catch   the    message 

dear, 

The  rosy  kiss  the  sun  has  left  for  her. 
And,  see,  she  is  attended  by  a  page, 
A  little  star  who  keeps  close  after  her. 
ANOTHER  VOICE  [in  the  distance}. 
In  the  chalice  of  a  flower 
Do  I  sleep  the  long  day  through, 
In  the  amber  twilight  hour 
Do  I  come  to  you,  my  dear, 
Do  I  come  to  you. 
HE. 

In  twilight  glow  we  linger  till 
Our  fire  falls  in,  still  burning  slow 
Upon  the  wooded  ridge  of  hill 
In  twilight  glow. 

Deep  down  a  stream  seems  scarce  to  flow, 
Our  far-flown  fancies  have  their  will, 
The  brown  glen  swims  with  mist  below. 

The  tawny,  saffron  beech  leaves  fill 
A  background  'gainst  which  softly  blow 
Your  tawny  locks  the  ruddier  still 
In  twilight  glow. 

\_As  lie  speaks  he  rises,  taking  her  by  the 
hand;  she  rises,  too,  and  they  wander  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  folk.  A  'voice  is 
heard  farther  away,  singing. ~\ 

VOICE. 

Who  will  go  roving,  go  roving  with  me  ? 
244 


THE  GATE  OF  WISHES 


[Another  voice  in  another  direction,  singing 

softly.] 
VOICE. 

Do  I  come  to  you,  my  dear, 
Do  I  come  to  you. 


245 


A   SELECTED    LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 


PUBLISHED  BY 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


European  Theories  of  the  Drama 

An  Anthology  of  Dramatic   Theory  and  Criticism   from 

Aristotle  to  the  Present  Day,  in  a  Series  of  Selected 

Texts,  <with   Commentaries,  Biographies  and 

Bibliographies 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Author    of    "  Contemporary    French    Dramatists,"    "  The 

Continental  Drama  of  Today,"  "  British  and 

American  Drama  of  Today,"  etc.,  etc. 

A  book  of  paramount  importance.  This  monumental 
anthology  brings  together  for  the  first  time  the  epoch- 
making  theories  and  criticisms  of  the  drama  which  have 
affected  our  civilization  from  the  beginnings  in  Greece 
down  to  the  present  day.  Beginning  with  Aristotle,  each 
utterance  on  the  subject  has  been  chosen  with  reference  to 
its  importance,  and  its  effect  on  subsequent  dramatic 
writing.  The  texts  alone  would  be  of  great  interest  and 
value,  but  the  author,  Barrett  H.  Clark,  has  so  connected 
each  period  by  means  of  inter-chapters  that  his  comments 
taken  as  a  whole  constitute  a  veritable  history  of  dramatic 
criticism,  in  which  each  text  bears  out  his  statements. 

Nowhere  else  is  so  important  a  body  of  doctrine  on  the 
subject  of  the  drama  to  be  obtained.  It  cannot  fail  to 
appeal  to  any  one  who  is  interested  in  the  theater,  and 
will  be  indispensable  to  students. 

The  introduction  to  each  section  of  the  book  is  followed 
by  an  exhaustive  bibliography;  each  writer  whose  work 
is  represented  is  made  the  subject  of  a  brief  biography, 
and  the  entire  volume  is  rendered  doubly  valuable  by  the 
index,  which  is  worked  out  in  great  detail. 

Prof.  Brander  Matthews  of  Columbia  University 
says:  "Mr.  Clark  deserves  high  praise  for  the  careful 
thoroughness  with  which  he  has  performed  the  task  he  set 
for  himself.  He  has  done  well  what  was  well  worth  doing. 
In  these  five  hundred  pages  he  has  extracted  the  essence 
of  several  five-foot  shelves.  His  anthology  will  be  in 
valuable  to  all  students  of  the  principles  of  playmaking; 
and  it  ought  to  be  welcomed  by  all  those  whose  curiosity 
has  been  aroused  by  the  frequent  references  of  our  latter 
day  theorists  of  the  theater  to  their  predecessors." 

Wm.  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale  University  writes:  "Mr. 
Clark's  book,  '  European  Theories  of  the  Drama,1  is  an 
exceedingly  valuable  work  and  ought  to  be  widely  useful." 
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Plays  and  Players 

LEAVES  FROM  A  CRITIC'S  SCRAPBOOK 
BY  WALTER  PRICHARD  EATON 
PREFACE  BY  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 
A  new  volume  of  criticisms  of  plays  and  papers  on  act 
ing,  play-making,  and  other  dramatic  problems,  by  Wal 
ter  Prichard  Eaton,  dramatic  critic,  and  author  of  "  The 
American  Stage  of  To-day,"  "  At  the  New  Theater  and 
Others,"  "Idyl  of  the  Twin  Fires,"  etc.  The  new 
volume  begins  with  plays  produced  as  far  back  as  1910, 
and  brings  the  record  down  to  the  current  year.  One  sec 
tion  is  devoted  to  American  plays,  one  to  foreign  plays 
acted  on  our  stage,  one  to  various  revivals  of  Shakes 
peare.  These  sections  form  a  record  of  the  important 
activities  of  the  American  theater  for  the  past  six  years, 
and  constitute  about  half  of  the  volume.  The  remainder 
of  the  book  is  given  over  to  various  discussions  of  the 
actor's  art,  of  play  construction,  of  the  new  stage  craft, 
of  new  movements  in  our  theater,  such  as  the  Washington 
Square  Players,  and  several  lighter  essays  in  the  satiric 
vein  which  characterized  the  author's  work  when  he  was 
the  dramatic  critic  of  the  New  York  Sun.  Unlike  most 
volumes  of  criticisms,  this  one  is  illustrated,  the  pictures  of 
the  productions  described  in  the  text  furnishing  an  ad 
ditional  historical  record.  At  a  time  when  the  drama  is 
regaining  its  lost  position  of  literary  dignity  it  is  partic 
ularly  fitting  that  dignified  and  intelligent  criticism  and 
discussion  should  also  find  accompanying  publication. 
Toronto  Saturday  Night: 

Mr.  Eaton  writes  well  and  with  dignity  and  inde 
pendence.     His  book  should  find  favor  with  the  more 
serious  students  of  the  Drama  of  the  Day. 
Detroit  Free  Press: 

This  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  also  valu 
able  books  on  the  modern  drama  that  we  have 
encountered  in  that  period  popularly  referred  to  as 
"  a  dog's  age."  Mr.  Eaton  is  a  competent  and  well- 
esteemed  critic.  The  book  is  a  record  of  the  activ 
ities  of  the  American  stage  since  1910,  down  to  the 
present.  Mr.  Eaton  succinctly  restores  the  play  to 
the  memory,  revisualizes  the  actors,  and  puts  the 
kernel  of  it  into  a  nutshell  for  us  to  ponder  over  and 
by  which  to  correct  our  impressions. 
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Four  Plays  of  the  Free  Theater 

Francois  de  Curel's  The  Fossils 
Jean  Jullien's  The  Serenade 

Georges  de  Porto-Riche's 

Francoise'  Luck 

Georges  Ancey's  The  Dupe 

Translated  'with  an  introduction  on  Antoine  and  Theatre 
Libre  by  BARRETT  H.  CLARK.  Preface  by  BRIEUX,  of  the 
French  Academy,  and  a  Sonnet  by  EDMOND  ROSTAND. 

The  Review  of  Reviews  says: 

"A  lengthy  introduction,  which  is  a  gem  of  con 
densed  information." 

H.  L.  Mencken  (in  the  Smart  Set)  says: 

"Here  we  have,  not  only  skilful  playwriting,  but 
also  sound  literature." 

Brander  Matthews  says: 

"The  book  is  welcome  to  all  students  of  the  modern 
stage.  It  contains  the  fullest  account  of  the  activities 
of  Antoine's  Free  Theater  to  be  found  anywhere — 
even  in  French." 

The  Chicago  Tribune  says: 

"Mr.  Clark's  translations,  with  their  accurate  and 
comprehensive  prefaces,  are  necessary  to  anyone  in 
terested  in  modern  drama  ...  If  the  American  reader 
will  forget  Yankee  notions  of  morality  ...  if  the 
reader  will  assume  the  French  point  of  view,  this  book 
will  prove  a  rarely  valuable  experience.  Mr.  Clark 
has  done  this  important  task  excellently." 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Contemporary  French  Dramatists 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

In  "Contemporary  Trench  Dramatists"  Mr.  Barrett  H. 
Clark,  author  of  "The  Continental  Drama  of  Today," 
"The  British  and  American  Drama  of  Today,"  translator 
of  "Four  Plays  of  the  Free  Theater,"  and  of  various  plays 
of  Donnay,  Hervieu,  Lemaitre,  Sardou,  Lavedan,  etc.,  has 
contributed  the  first  collection  of  studies  on  the  modern 
French  theater.  Mr.  Clark  takes  up  the  chief  dramatists 
of  France  beginning  with  the  Theatre  Libre:  Curel, 
Brieux,  Hervieu,  Lemaitre,  Lavedan,  Donnay,  Porto-Riche, 
Rostand,  Bataille,  Bernstein,  Capus,  Flers,  and  Caillavet. 
The  book  contains  numerous  quotations  from  the  chief  rep 
resentative  plays  of  each  dramatist,  a  separate  chapter  on 
"Characteristics"  and  the  most  complete  bibliography  to 
be  found  anyivhere. 

This  book  gives  a  study  of  contemporary  drama  in 
France  which  has  been  more  neglected  than  any  other 
European  country. 

Independent,  New  York: 

"Almost  indispensable  to  the  student  of  the  theater." 

Boston  Transcript: 

"  Mr.  Clark's  method  of  analyzing  the  works  of  the 
Playwrights  selected  is  simple  and  helpful.  *  *  *  As 
a  manual  for  reference  or  story,  'Contemporary  French 
Dramatists,'  with  its  added  bibliographical  material, 
will  serve  well  its  purpose." 

Uniform  with  FOUR  PLAYS.    Handsomely  bound. 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Antigone  of  Sophocles 

By  PROF.  JOSEPH  EDWARD  HARRY 


An  acting  'version  of  this  most  perfect  of  all  dramas. 
A  scholarly  iuork  in  readable  English.  Especiallly 
adaptable  for  Colleges,  Dramatic  Societies,  etc. 

Post  Express,  Rochester: 

"He  has  done  his  work  well."  "Professor  Harry 
has  translated  with  a  virile  force  that  is  almost  Shake 
spearean."  "The  difficult  task  of  rendering  the 
choruses  into  English  lyrical  verse  has  been  very  cred 
itably  accomplished." 

Argonaut,  San  Francisco: 

"Professor  Harry  is  a  competent  translator  not 
only  because  of  his  classical  knowledge,  but  also  be 
cause  of  a  certain  enthusiastic  sympathy  that  shows 
itself  in  an  unfailing  choice  of  words  and  expression." 

North  American,  Philadelphia: 

"Professor  Harry,  teacher  of  Greek  in  the  Cincin 
nati  University,  has  written  a  new  metrical  transla 
tion  of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles.  The  translation 
is  of  fine  dramatic  quality." 

Oregonian,  Portland: 

"A  splendidly  executed  translation  of  tke  celebrated 
Greek  tragedy." 

Herald,  Boston: 

"Scholars  will  not  need  to  be  urged  to  re-ad  this 
noteworthy  piece  of  literary  work,  and  we  hope  that 
many  others  who  have  no  special  scholarly  interest 
•will  be  led  to  its  perusal." 

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4  6 


European   Dramatists ' 


By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON 

Author  of  "George  Bernard  Shaw:  His  Life  and  Works." 
/»  the  present  work  the  famous  dramatic  critic  and 

biographer    of    Shaw    has    considered    six    representative 

dramatists  outside  of  the  United  States,  some  living,  some 

dead — Strindberg,  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Wilde,  Shaw,  Bar' 

ker,  and  Schnitzler. 

Velma  Swanston  Howard  says: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  appraisal  of  Strindberg  is  cer 
tainly  the  fairest,  kindest  and  most  impersonal  that 
I  have  yet  seen.  The  author  has  that  rare  combina 
tion  of  intellectual  power  and  spiritual  insight  which 
casts  a  clear,  strong  light  upon  all  subjects  under  his 
treatment." 

Baltimore  Evening  Sun: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  criticism  is  not  only  notable  for 
its  understanding  and  good  sense,  but  also  for  the 
extraordinary  range  and  accuracy  of  its  information." 

Jeanette  L.  Gilder,  in  the  Chicago  Tribune: 

"Henderson  is  a  writer  who  throws  new  light  on 
old  subjects." 

Chicago  Record  Herald: 

"His  essays  in  interpretation  are  welcome.  Mr. 
Henderson  has  a  catholic  spirit  and  writes  without 
parochial  prejudice — a  thing  deplorably  rare  among 
American  critics  of  the  present  day.  *  *  *  One  finds 
that  one  agrees  with  Mr.  Henderson's  main  conten 
tions  and  is  eager  to  break  a  lance  with  him  about 
minor  points,  which  is  only  a  way  of  saying  that  he  is 
stimulating,  that  he  strikes  sparks.  He  knows  his  age 
thoroughly  and  lives  in  it  with  eager  sympathy  and 
understanding." 

Providence  Journal: 

"Henderson  has  done  his  work,  within  its  obvious 
limitations,  in  an  exceedingly  competent  manner.  He 
has  the  happy  faculty  of  making  his  biographical 
treatment  interesting,  combining  the  personal  facts  and 
a  fairly  clear  and  entertaining  portrait  of  the  indi 
vidual  with  intelligent  critical  comment  on  his  artistic 
work." 

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bound,  large  I2mo Net,  $2.75 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


A  FEW  CRITICAL  REVIEWS  OF 

George   Bernard  Shaw 

His  LIFE  AND  WORKS 
A  CRITICAL  BIOGRAPHY  (Authorized) 
By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.,  PH.D. 
The  Dial: 

"In  over  five  hundred  pages,  with  an  energy  and 
carefulness    and   sympathy   which    deserve    high    com 
mendation,    Dr.   Henderson   has   presented   his   subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles." 
The  Bookman: 

"A  more  entertaining  narrative,  whether   in  biog 
raphy  or  fiction,  has  not  appeared  in  recent  years." 
The  Independent: 

"Whatever  George  Bernard  Shaw  may  think  of  his 
Biography  the  rest  of  the  world  will   probably  agree 
that  Dr.  Henderson  has  done  a  good  job." 
Boston  Transcript: 

"There  is  no  exaggeration  in  saying  it  is  one  of  the 
most  entertaining  biographies  of  these  opening  years 
of  the  Twentieth  Century." 
Bernard  Shaw: 

"You  are  a  genius,  because  you  are  somehow  sus 
ceptible    to    the    really   significant    and    differentiating 
traits  and  utterances  of  your  subject." 
Maurice  Maeterlinck: 

"You  have  written  one  of  the  most  sagacious,  most 
acute  and  most  penetrating  essays  in  the  whole  mod 
ern  moment." 
Edwin  Markham: 

"He   stands   to-day   as   the   chief    literary   critic   of 
the  South,  and  in  the  very  forefront  of  the  critics  of 
the  nation." 
William  Lyon  Phelps: 

"Your  critical  biography  of  Shaw  is  a  really  great 
work." 
Richard   Burton: 

"In  over  five  hundred  pages,  with  an  energy  and 
carefulness  and  sympathy  which  deserves  high  com 
mendation,  Dr.  Henderson  has  presented  his  subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles.  *  *  *  Intensely  interest 
ing  *  *  *  sound,  and  brilliant,  full  of  keen  insight  and 
happy  turns  of  statement.  *  *  *  This  service  Professor 
Henderson's  book  does  perform ;  and  I  incline  to  call  it 
a  great  one." 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Changing  Drama 

By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.  Ph.D. 

Author    of    "  European    Dramatists,"    "  George    Bernard 
Shaw  — His  Life  and  Work."     Etc. 

A  vital  book,  popular  in  style,  cosmopolitan  in  tone,, 
appraising  the  drama  of  the  past  sixty  years,  its  changes, 
contributions  and  tendencies.  Has  an  expression  of  the 
larger  realities  of  the  art  and  life  of  our  time. 

B .  B.  Hale  in  TKe  Dial:  "  One  of  the  most  widely 
read  dramatic  critics  of  our  day;  few  know  as  well  as  he 
what  is  '  up '  in  the  dramatic  world,  what  are  the  cur 
rents  of  present-day  thought,  what  people  are  thinking, 
dreaming,  doing,  or  trying  to  do." 

New  York  Times:  "  Apt,  happily  allusive,  finely  in 
formed  essays  on  the  dramatists  of  our  own  time  —  his 
essay  style  is  vigorous  and  pleasing." 

L  ok  News  Monthly:  "  Shows  clear  understanding 
of  the  evolution  of  form  and  spirit,  and  the  differentia 
tion  of  the  forces  —  spiritual,  intellectual  and  social  — 
which  are  making  the  theatre  what  it  is  today  .  .  .  we 
can  recollect  no  book  of  recent  times  which  has  such  con 
temporaneousness,  yet  which  regards  the  subject  with  such 
excellent  perspective  .  .  .  almost  indispensable  to  the  gen 
eral  student  of  drama  ...  a  book  of  rich  perspective  and 
sound  analysis.  The  style  is  simple  and  direct." 

Geo.  Middleton  in  La  Follette's:  "  The  best  attempt 
to  formulate  the  tendencies  which  the  drama  is  now  taking 
in  its  evolutionary  course." 

Argonaut:  "Marked  by  insight,  discernment  and  en 
thusiasm." 

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The  Gift 

A  POETIC  DRAMA 
By  MARGARET  DOUGLAS  ROGERS 

A   dramatic  -poem   in  two  acts,  treating  in   altogether 
new   fashion   the  world   old  story   of  Pandora,   the  first 
•woman. 
New  Haven  Times  Leader: 

"Well  written  and   attractive." 
E  v angelical  M  essenger : 

"A   very   beautifully  written   portrayal   of   the   old 
story  of  Pandora." 
Rochester  Post  Dispatch: 

"There  is  much  poetic  feeling  in  the  treatment  of 
the  subject." 
Grand  Rapids  Herald: 

"THE     GIFT,    dealing    with    this    ever    interesting 
mythological  story,  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  dramas 
of  the  day." 
St.  Xavier  Calendar: 

"The  story  of  Pandora  is  so  set  down  as  to  bring 
out    its   stage    possibilities.     Told    by    Mrs.    Rogers    in 
exquisite  language." 
Salt  Lake  Tribune: 

"The  tale  is  charmingly  wrought  and  has  possibil 
ities  as  a  simple  dramatic  production,  as  well  as  being 
a  delightful  morsel  of  light  reading." 
Cincinnati  Enquirer: 

"The   love   story  is   delightfully  told   and  the  dra 
matic  action  of  the  play  is  swift  and  strong." 
Buffalo  Express: 

"It  is  a  delightful  bit  of  fancy  with  a  dramatic  and 
poetic  setting." 
Boston  Woman's  Journal: 

"Epimetheus  and  Pandora  and  her  box  are  charm 
ingly  presented." 
Worcester  Gazette: 

"It  is  absolutely  refreshing  to  find  a  writer  willing 
to  risk  a  venture  harking  back  to  the  times  of  the 
Mutes  and  the  other  worthies  of  mythological  fame. 
*  *  *  The  story  of  Pandora's  box  told  in  verse  by  a 
woman.  It  may  be  said  it  could  not  have  been  better 
written  had  a  representative  of  the  one  who  only  as- 
•isted  at  the  opening  been  responsible  for  the  play." 
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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Comedies  of  Words 
and  Other  Plays 

BY  ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 
TRANSLATED  BY  PIERRE  LOVING 

'  The  Hour  of  Recognition  " 

'  Great  Scenes  " 

1  The  Festival  of  Bacchus  " 

'  His  Helpmate  " 

1  Literature." 

In  his  "  Comedies  of  Words,"  Arthur  Schnitzler,  the 
great  Austrian  Dramatist,  has  penetrated  to  newer  and 
profounder  regions  of  human  psychology.  According  to 
Schnitzler,  the  keenly  compelling  problems  of  earth  are: 
tb*"  adjustment  of  a  man  to  one  woman,  a  woman  to  one 
man,  the  children  to  their  parents,  the  artist  to  life,  the 
individual  to  his  most  cherished  beliefs,  and  how  can  we 
accomplish  this  adjustment  when,  try  as  we  please,  there 
is  a  destiny  which  sweeps  our  little  plans  away  like  help 
less  chessmen  from  the  board?  Since  the  creation  of  An- 
atol,  that  delightful  toy  philosopher,  so  popular  in  almost 
every  theater  of  the  world,  the  great  Physician-Dramatist 
has  pushed  on  both  as  World-Dramatist  and  reconnoiterer 
beyond  the  misty  frontiers  of  man's  conscious  existence. 
He  has  attempted  in  an  artistic  way  to  get  beneath  what 
Freud  calls  the  "  Psychic  Censor "  which  edits  all  our 
suppressed  desires.  Reading  Schnitzler  is  like  going  to 
school  to  Life  itself ! 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Lucky  Pehr 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized  Translation  by  I'elma  Sioanston  Howard., 

An  allegorical  drama  in  five  acts.    Compared  favorably 

to    Barrie's    "Peter   Pan"   and   Maeterlinck's    "The   Blue 

Bird," 

Rochester  Post  Express: 

Strindberg  has  written  many  plays  which  might  be 
described  as  realistic  nightmares.  But  this  remark  does 
not  apply  to  "Lucky  Pehr."  *  *  *  This  drama  is  one 
of  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  Strindberg's 
genius. 

.Yew  York  World: 

"Pehr"  is  lucky  because,  having  tested  all  things, 
he  finds  that  only  love  and  duty  are  true. 

New  York  Times: 

"Lucky  Pehr"  clothes  cynicism  in  real  entertain 
ment  instead  of  in  gloom.  And  it  has  its  surprises. 
Can  this  be  August  Strindberg,  who  ends  his  drama 
so  sweetly  on  the  note  of  the  woman-soul,  leading  up 
ward  and  on? 

Worcester  Gazette: 

From  a  city  of  Ohio  comes  this  product  of  Swedish 
fancy  in  most  attractive  attire,  attesting  that  the  pos 
sibilities  of  dramatic  art  have  not  entirely  ceased  in 
this  age  of  vaudeville  and  moving  pictures.  A  great 
sermon  in  altruism  is  preached  in  these  pages,  which 
we  would  that  millions  might  see  and  hear.  To  those 
who  think  or  would  like  to  think,  "Lucky  Pehr"  will 
prove  a  most  readable  book.  *  *  *  An  allegory,  it  is 
true,  but  so  are  -flssop's  Fables,  the  Parables  of  the 
Scriptures  and  many  others  of  the  most  effective  les 
sons  ever  given. 

Boston  Globe: 

A  popular  drama.  *  *  *  There  is  no  doubt  about 
the  book  being  a  delightful  companion  in  the  library. 
In  charm  of  fancy  and  grace  of  imagery  the  story  may 
not  be  unfairly  classed  with  "The  Blue  Bird"  and 
"Peter  Pan." 
Photogravure  frontispiece  of  Strindberg  etched  by 

Zorn.    Also,  a  reproduction  of  Velma  Swanston  Howard's 

authorization. 

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Raster 


(A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS) 
AND  STORIES  BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized  translation  by  Velma  Svaanston  Howard. 
In  this  work  the  author  reveals  a  broad  tolerance,  a  rare 
poetic  tenderness  augmented  by  an  almost  divine  under 
standing  of  human  frailties  as  marking  certain  natural 
stages  in  evolution  of  the  soul. 
LoutsvUle  Courier- Journal: 

Here  is  a  major  key  of  cheerfulness  and  idealism 
— a  relief  to  a  reader  who  has  passed  through  some 
of  the  author's  morbid  pages.  *  *  *  Some  critics  find 
in  this  play  (Easter)  less  of  the  thrust  of  a  distinctive 
art  than  is  found  in  the  author's  more  lugubrious 
dramas.  There  is  indeed  less  sting  in  it.  Neverthe 
less  it  has  a  nobler  tone.  It  more  ably  fulfills  the 
purpose  of  good  drama — the  chastening  of  the  spec 
tators'  hearts  through  their  participation  in  the  suf 
fering  of  the  dramatic  personages.  There  is  in  the 
play  a  mystical  exaltation,  a  belief  and  trust  in  good 
and  its  power  to  embrace  all  in  its  beneficence,  to  bring 
all  confusion  to  harmony. 
The  Nation: 

Those  who  like  the  variety  of  symbolism  which 
Maeterlinck  has  often  employed — most  notably  in  the 
"i>iuebird" — will  turn  with  pleasure  to  the  short  stories 
of  Strindberg  which  Mrs.  Howard  has  included  in  her 
volume.  *  *  *  They  are  one  and  all  diverting  on  ac 
count  of  the  author's  facility  in  dealing  with  fanciful 
details. 
Bookseller: 

"Easter"  is  a  play  of  six  characters  illustrative  of 
human  frailties  and  the  effect  of  the  divine  power 
of  tolerance  and  charity.  *  *  *  There  is  a  symbolism, 
a  poetic  quality,  a  spiritual  insight  in  the  author's 
work  that  make  a  direct  appeal  to  the  cultured.  *  *  • 
The  Dial: 

One   play   from   his    (Strindberg's)    third,   or   sym 
bolistic  period  stands  almost  alone.     This  is  "Easter." 
There    is    a    sweet,    sane,    life-giving    spirit    about    it. 
Photogravure    frontispiece    of    Strindberg    etched    by 
Zorn.     Also,  a  reproduction  of  Velma  Svaanston  Howard's 
authorization. 
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The  Hamlet  Problem  and  Its  Solution 

By  EMERSON  VENABLE 

The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  has  never  been  adequately  in 
terpreted.  Two  hundred  years  of  critical  discussion  has 
not  sufficed  to  reconcile  conflicting  impressions  regarding 
the  scope  of  Shakespeare's  design  in  this,  the  first  of  his 
great  philosophic  tragedies.  We  believe  that  all  those 
students  who  are  interested  in  the  study  of  Shakespeare 
will  find  this  volume  of  great  value. 
The  Louisville  Courier* Journal: 

"Mr.  Venable's  Hamlet  is  a  'protagonist  of  a  drama 
of  triumphant  moral  achievement.'  He  rises  through 
the  play  from  an  elected  agent  of  vengeance  to  a 
man  gravely  impressed  with  'an  imperative  sense  of 
moral  obligation,  tragic  in  its  depth,  felt  toward  the 
world.' " 
E.  H.  Sothern: 

"Your  ideas  of  Hamlet  so  entirely  agree  with  my 
own  that  the  book  has  been  a  real  delight  to  me.  I 
have  always  had  exactly  this  feeling  about  the  char 
acter  of  Hamlet.  I  think  you  have  wiped  away  a 
great  many  cobwebs,  and  I  believe  your  book  will 
prove  to  be  most  convincing  to  many  people  who  may 
yet  be  a  trifle  in  the  dark." 
The  Book  News  Monthly: 

"Mr.  Venable  is  the  latest  critic  to  apply  himself 
to  the  'Hamlet'  problem,  and  he  offers  a  solution  in 
an  admirably  written  little  book  which  is  sure  to  at 
tract  readers.  Undeterred  by  the  formidable  names 
of  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  Mr.  Venable  pronounces  un 
tenable  the  theories  which  those  great  authors  pro 
pounded  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  figure  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark.  *  *  *  Mr.  Venable  looks  in 
another  direction  for  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
*  *  *  The  solution  offered  by  the  author  is  just  the 
reverse  of  that  proposed  by  Goethe.  *  *  *  From  Mr. 
Venable's  viewpoint  the  key  to  'Hamlet'  is  found  in 
the  famous  soliloquies,  and  his  book  is  based  upon 
a  close  study  of  those  utterances  which  bring  us  with 
in  the  portals  of  the  soul  of  the  real  Hamlet.  The 
reader  with  an  open  mind  will  find  in  Mr.  Venable  a 
writer  whose  breadth  of  view  and  searching  thought 
gives  weight  to  this  competent  study  of  the  most  inter 
esting  of  Shakespearean  problems." 
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Portmanteau  Plays 

BY  STUART  WALKER 

Edited  and  with  an  Introduction  by 

EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 

This  volume  contains  four  One  Act  Plays  by  the  in 
ventor  and  director  of  the  Portmanteau  Theater.  They 
are  all  included  in  the  regular  repertory  of  the  Theater 
and  the  four  contained  in  this  volume  comprise  in  them 
selves  an  evening's  bill. 

There  is  also  an  Introduction  by  Edward  Hale  Bier- 
stadt  on  the  Portmanteau  Theater  in  theory  and  practice. 

The  book  is  illustrated  by  pictures  taken  from  actual 
presentations  of  the  plays. 

The  first  play,  the  "  Trimplet"  deals  with  the  search 
for  a  certain  magic  thing  called  a  trimplet  which  can  cure 
all  the  ills  of  whoever  finds  it.  The  search  and  the  find 
ing  constitute  the  action  of  the  piece. 

Second  play,  "Six  who  Pass  While  the  Lentils 
Boil,"  is  perhaps  the  most  popular  in  Mr.  Walker's 
repertory.  The  story  is  of  a  Queen  who,  having  stepped 
on  the  ring-toe  of  the  King's  great-aunt,  is  condemned 
to  die  before  the  clock  strikes  twelve.  The  Six  who  pass 
the  pot  in  which  boil  the  lentils  are  on  their  way  to  the 
execution. 

Next  comes  "  Nevertheless,"  which  tells  of  a  burglar 
who  oddly  enough  reaches  regeneration  through  two  chil 
dren  and  a  dictionary. 

A_  1  last  of  all  is  the  "  Medicines-Show,"  which  is  a 
character  study  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi. 
One  does  not  see  either  the  Show  or  the  Mississippi,  but 
the  characters  are  so  all  sufficient  that  one  does  not  miss 
the  others. 

All  of  these  plays  are  fanciful  —  symbolic  if  you  like 
—  but  all  of  them  have  a  very  distinct  raison  d'etre  in 
themselves,  quite  apart  from  any  ulterior  meaning. 

With  Mr.  Walker  it  is  always  "  the  story  first,"  and 
herein  he  is  at  one  with  Lord  Dunsany  and  others  of  his 
ilk.  The  plays  have  body,  force,  and  beauty  always;  and 
if  the  reader  desires  to  read  in  anything  else  surely  that 
is  his  privilege. 

Each  play,  and  even  the  Theater  itself  has  a  prologue, 
and  with  the  help  of  these  one  is  enabled  to  pass  from  one 
charming  tale  to  the  next  without  a  break  in  the  continuity. 
With  five  full-page  illustrations  on  cameo  paper. 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


More  Portmanteau  Plays 

BY  STUART  WALKER 

Edited  and  with  an  Introduction  by 
EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 

The  thorough  success  of  the  volume  entitled  "  Pott- 
manteau  Plays  "  has  encouraged  the  publication  of  a 
second  series  under  the  title  "  More  Portmanteau 
Plays."  This  continuation  carries  on  the  work  begun  in 
the  first  book,  and  contains  "  The  Lady  of  the  Weep' 
ing  Willow  Tree,"  one  of  the  finest  and  most  effective 
pieces  Stuart  Walker  has  presented  under  his  own  name ; 
"  The  Very  Naked  Boy,"  a  slight,  whimsical,  and 
wholly  delightful  bit  of  foolery;  "Jonathan  Makes  a 
Wish,"  a  truly  strong  three-act  work  with  an  appeal  of 
unusual  vigor. 

With  Six  full  page  illustrations   on   Cameo   Paper. 

I2mo.    Silk  cloth   $2.00 

TO  BE  PUBLISHED  IN  1920 

Portmanteau  Adaptations 

BY  STUART  WALKER 

Edited  and  with  an  Introduction  by 
EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 

The  third  volume  of  the  Portmanteau  Series  in 
cludes  three  of  Stuart  Walker's  most  successful  plays 
which  are  either  adapted  from  or  based  on  works  by 
other  authors.  The  first  is  the  ever  wonderful  "  Gam 
mer  Gurton's  Needle,"  written  some  hundreds  of  years 
ago  and  now  arranged  for  the  use  of  the  modern  theater 
goer.  Next  comes,  "  The  Birthday  of  the  Infanta  " 
from  the  poignant  story  of  Oscar  Wilde  (used  also  by 
Alfred  Noyes  in  one  of  his  most  effective  poems),  and 
last  of  all  the  widely  popular  "  Seventeen  "  from  the 
story  of  the  same  name  by  Booth  Tarkington. 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Truth 

About  The  Theater 

Anonymous 

Precisely  what  the  title  indicates  —  facts  as  they 
are,  plain  and  unmistakable  without  veneer  of  any 
sort.  It  goes  directly  to  the  heart  of  the  whole 
matter.  Behind  the  writer  of  it  —  who  is  one  of 
the  best  known  theatrical  men  in  New  York  —  are 
long  years  of  experience.  He  recites  what  he 
knows,  what  he  has  seen,  and  his  quiet,  calm,  au 
thoritative  account  of  conditions  as  they  are  is  with 
out  adornment,  excuse  or  exaggeration.  It  is  in 
tended  to  be  helpful  to  those  who  want  the  facts, 
and  for  them  it  will  prove  of  immeasurable  value. 

'  The  Truth  About  the  Theater,"  in  brief,  lifts 
the  curtain  on  the  American  stage.  It  leaves  no 
phase  of  the  subject  untouched.  To  those  who  are 
ambitious  to  serve  the  theater,  either  as  players  or 
as  playwrights,  or,  again,  in  some  managerial  ca 
pacity,  the  book  is  invaluable.  To  those,  too,  who 
would  know  more  about  the  theater  that  they  may 
come  to  some  fair  estimate  of  the  worth  of  the  in 
numerable  theories  nowadays  advanced,  the  book 
will  again  prove  its  value. 

Net  $1.25 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The 

Provincetown  Plays 

EDITED  BY 
GEORGE  CRAM  COOK  AND  FRANK  SHAY 


THE  CONTENTS  ARE: 

Alice  Rostetter's  comedy THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 

James  Oppenheim's  poetic NIGHT 

George     Cram     Cook's     and 

Susan    GlaspelPs SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

Eugene  O'Neill's  play BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay's ARIA  DE  CAPO 

Rita  Wellman's STRING  OF  THE   SAMISEN. 

Wilbur  D.  Steele's  satire NOT  SMART 

Floyd   Dell's  comedy THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

Hutchin  Hapgood's  and  Neith 

Boyce's  play ENEMIES 

Pendleton    King's COCAINE 

Every  author,  with  one  exception,  has  a  book  or  more  to 
his  credit.  Several  are  at  the  top  of  their  profession. 

Rita  Wellman,  a  Saturday  Evening  Post  star,  has  had 
two  or  three  plays  on  Broadway,  and  has  a  new  novel, 
THE  WINGS  OF  DESIRE. 

Cook  and  Glaspell  are  well  known  —  he  for  his  novels 
and  Miss  Glaspell  for  novels  and  plays. 

E.  Millay  is  one  of  America's  best  minor  poets.  Steele, 
according  to  O'Brien,  is  America's  best  short-story  writer. 

Oppenheim  has  over  a  dozen  novels,  books  of  poems 
and  essays  to  his  credit. 

O'Neill  has  a  play  on  Broadway  now,  BEYOND  THE 
HORIZON. 

Hutch.  Hapeood  is  author  of  the  STORY  OF  A 
LOVER,  published  by  Boni  and  Liveright  anonymously. 

8vo.    Silk  Cloth,  Gilt  Top Net  $3.00 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles  * 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  23  1955 

REC'D  LD-URD 


Form  L9-50m-ll.'50 (2554)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


A     000  929  288     9 


